A^nf; 


v 


\y 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2011  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://www.archive.org/details/lastfrontierwhitOO 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 


BY  E.  ALEXANDER  POWELL 

THE  LAST  FRONTIER 
GENTLEMEN  ROVERS 
THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 
FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 
THE  ROAD  TO  GLORY 
VIVE  LA  FRANCE ! 
ITALY  AT  WAR 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

THE  WHITE  MAN'S  WAR 
FOR  CIVILISATION  IN  AFRICA 


BY   y 

E.  ALEXANDER  POWELL,  F.R.G.S. 

IATE  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CONSULAR  SERVICE  IN  EGYPT 


WITH  SIXTEEN  FULL-PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS 
AND  MAP 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1919 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


MY  CHEERFUL,  UNCOMPLAINING 

AND  COURAGEOUS  COMRADE  ON  THE 

LONG  AFRICAN  TRAIL 

MY  WIFE 


FOREWORD 

The  unknown  lands  are  almost  all  discovered.  The 
work  of  the  explorer  and  the  pioneer  is  nearly  finished, 
and  ere  long  their  stern  and  hardy  figures  will  have 
passed  from  the  world's  stage,  never  to  return.  In  the 
Argentine,  in  Mexico,  and  in  Alaska  store  clothes  and 
stiff  hats  are  replacing  corduroys  and  sombreros;  the 
pack-mule  is  giving  way  to  the  motor-car.  The  earth 
has  but  one  more  great  prize  with  which  to  lure  the 
avaricious  and  the  adventurous:  Africa — mysterious, 
opulent,  alluring — beckons  and  calls. 

The  conditions  which  exist  in  Africa  to-day  closely 
parallel  those  which  were  to  be  found,  within  the  mem- 
ory of  many  of  us,  beyond  the  Mississippi.  In  North 
Africa  the  French  are  pushing  their  railways  across  the 
desert  in  the  face  of  Arab  opposition,  just  as  we  pushed 
our  railways  across  the  desert  in  the  face  of  Indian  op- 
position forty  years  ago.  As  an  El  Dorado  the  Trans- 
vaal has  taken  the  place  held  by  Australia,  and  Cali- 
fornia, and  the  Yukon,  in  their  turn.  The  grazing  lands 
of  Morocco  and  the  grain  lands  of  Rhodesia  will  prove 
formidable  rivals  to  those  of  our  own  West  in  a  much- 
nearer  future  than  most  of  us  suppose.  French  and 
British  well-drillers  are  giving  modern  versions  of  the 
miracle  of  Moses  in  the  Sahara  and  the  Sudan  and  con- 
verting worthless  deserts  into  rich  domains  thereby. 

vii 


FOREWORD 

The  story  of  the  conquest  of  a  continent  by  these 
men  with  levels  and  transits,  drills  and  dynamite, 
ploughs  and  spades,  forms  a  chronicle  of  courage,  dar- 
ing, resource,  and  tenacity  unsurpassed  in  history.  They 
are  no  idlers,  these  pioneers  of  the  desert,  the  jungle, 
and  the  veldt;  they  live  with  danger  and  hardship  for 
their  daily  mates;  they  die  with  their  boots  on  from 
snake-bite  or  sleeping-sickness  or  Somali  spear;  and 
remember,  please,  they  are  making  new  markets  and 
new  playgrounds  for  you  and  me.  Morocco,  Algeria, 
Tripolitania,  Equatoria,  Rhodesia,  the  Sahara,  the 
Sudan,  the  Congo,  the  Rand,  and  the  Zambezi  .  .  . 
with  your  permission  I  will  take  you  to  them  all,  and  you 
shall  see,  as  though  with  your  own  eyes,  those  strange 
and  far-off  places  which  mark  the  line  of  the  Last  Fron- 
tier, where  the  white-helmeted  pioneers  are  fighting  the 
battles  and  solving  the  problems  of  civilisation. 

E.  Alexander  Powell. 


vffi 


AN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Foe  assistance  in  the  preparation  of  this  book  I  am 
grateful  to  many  people.  To  the  editors  of  CoUUr ':. 
The  Outlook,  The  Review  of  Reviews,  The  Independent, 
The  Metropolitan,  Travel,  and  Scribners  my  thanks  are 
due  for  their  permission  to  use  such  portions  of  this 
volume  as  originally  appeared  in  their  magazines  in  the 
form  of  articles.  I  also  desire  to  acknowledge  my 
indebtedness  to  the  Right  Hon.  James  Bryce,  O.M.,  for 
permission  to  avail  myself  of  certain  data  contained  in 
his  admirable  work  on  South  Africa;  to  Charles  K. 
Field,  Esq.,  editor  of  The  Sunset  Magazine,  for  the  title 
and  introductory  lines  to  Chapter  V;  to  the  Hon.  F.  C. 
Penfield,  former  American  Diplomatic  Agent  in  Egypt, 
from  whose  clear  and  comprehensive  ''Present-Day 
Egypt"  I  have  drawn  portions  of  my  account  of  the 
complex  administration  of  the  Nile  country;  to  J.  Scott 
Keltie,  LL.D.,  F.R.G.S.,  author  of  ''The  Partition  of 
Africa"  and  editor  of  '''The  Statesman's  Year-Book."' 
for  much  valuable  information  obtained  from  those 
volumes;  and  to  Miss  Isabel  Savon*.  A.  Sylva  White, 
Esq.,  S.  H.  Leeder,  Esq.,  C.  W.  Furlong,  Esq.,  and 
Francis  Miltoun,  Esq.,  for  suggestions  derived  from  their 
writings  on  African  subjects.  To  the  American  diplo- 
matic and  consular  officials  in  .Africa,  and  to  mission- 
aries of  many  creeds  and  denominations,  I  am  indebted 

is 


AN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

for  innumerable  kindnesses  and  much  valuable  informa- 
tion. At  consulate  and  mission  station  alike,  from 
Cape  Bon  to  Table  Bay,  I  found  the  latch-string  always 
out  and  an  extra  chair  at  the  table.  I  likewise  take 
this  opportunity  of  expressing  my  appreciation  of  the 
courtesies  shown  me  by  H.  H.  Abbas  Hilmi  II,  Khedive 
of  Egypt;  H.  R.  H.  Prince  George  of  Greece,  former 
High  Commissioner  in  Crete;  H.  H.  AH  bin  Hamoud 
bin  Mohammed,  ex-Sultan  of  Zanzibar;  H.  E.  the 
French  Minister  of  the  Colonies;  H.  E.  the  Belgian 
Minister  of  the  Colonies;  Sir  Thomas  Cullinan  of  the 
Premier  Diamond  Mine,  Pretoria;  and  to  the  officers 
of  the  Imperial  German  East  Africa  Railways;  the 
Beira,  Mashonaland  and  Rhodesian  Railways;  and  the 
British  South  Africa  Company. 

E.  A.  P. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Foreword vii 

An  Acknowledgment ix 

CHAPTER 

I.    The  Third  Empire     .    . i 

II.    The  Passing  op  the  Peacock's  Tail.    ...  27 

III.  Sirens  of  the  Sands 56 

IV.  The  Italian  "White  Man's  Burden"   .    .    ,  80 
V.    The  Land  of  Before-and- After    ...    5    .  108 

VI.    In  Zanzibar 143 

VII.    The  Spiked  Helmet  in  Africa 165 

VEIL    "All  Aboard  for  Cape  Town!" 190 

IX.    The  Last  Stand  of  the  Pioneer 205 

X.    The  Country  of  Big  Things 223 

XI.    The  Forgotten  Isles 248 

Index 287 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Sandstorm  Passing  Over  Khartoum Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"Through  Dim  Bazaars  where  Turbaned  Shopkeepers  Squat 

Patiently  in  their  Doorways  " 16 

The  Troglodyte  Town  of  Medenine,  Southern  Tunisia  ...  26 

Some  Sirens  of  the  Sands 58 

Jewish  Women  in  the  Cemetery  of  Tunis 70 

An  Arab  Bride  Going  to  Her  Husband 78 

Sunrise  on  the  Great  Sands 86 

Work  and  Play  in  Black  Man's  Africa no 

The  Saviour  of  the  Sudan  and  Some  of  Those  he  Saved    .    .  118 

Strange  People  from  Innermost  Africa 128 

The  Gateway  to  East  Africa 146 

Arab  Women  of  Zanzibar *    .  156 

The  Hand  of  the  War  Lord  in  German  Africa 186 

Railroading  Through  a  Jungle 188 

More  Work  for  the  Pioneer 218 

The  Prison  Place  of  a  Great  Emperor 268 

Map  of  Africa,  Showing  Railways  and  Spheres  of  Influence 

At  end  of  volume 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

WE  have  witnessed  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
episodes  in  the  history  of  the  world.  In  less 
than  a  generation  we  have  seen  the  French  dream  of  an 
African  empire  stretching  without  interruption  from 
the  Mediterranean  to  the  Congo  literally  fulfilled. 
French  imperialism  did  not  end,  as  the  historians 
would  have  you  believe,  on  that  September  day  in 
1870  when  the  third  Napoleon  lost  his  liberty  and  his 
throne  at  Sedan.  The  echoes  of  the  Commune  had 
scarcely  died  away  before  the  French  empire-builders 
were  again  at  work,  in  Africa,  in  Asia,  in  Oceanica, 
founding  on  every  seaboard  of  the  world  a  new  and 
greater  France.  In  the  twoscore  years  that  have 
elapsed  since  France's  annee  terrible  her  neglected  and 
scattered  colonies  have  been  expanded  into  a  third 
empire — an  empire  oversea.  She  has  had  her  revenge 
for  the  loss  of  Alsace-Lorraine  by  forestalling  Teutonic 
colonial  ambition  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe:  in 
China,  in  Australasia,  in  Equatoria,  and  in  Morocco  the 
advance  of  the  German  vorlopers  has  been  halted  by  the 
harsh  "Qui  vive?"  of  the  French  videttes. 

1 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Though  thirty  centuries  have  elapsed  since  Phoe- 
nicia first  began  to  nibble  at  the  continent,  it  was  not 
until  1884  that  the  mad  rush  began  which  ended  in 
Africa's  being  apportioned  among  themselves  by  half  a 
dozen  European  nations  with  as  little  scruple  as  a  gang 
of  boys  would  divide  a  stolen  pie.  This  stealing  of  a 
continent,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel,  is  one  of  the  most 
astounding  performances  in  history.  France  emerged 
from  the  scramble  with  a  larger  slice  of  territory  than 
any  other  power,  a  territory  which  she  has  so  steadily 
and  systematically  expanded  and  consolidated  that  to- 
day her  sphere  of  influence  extends  over  forty-five  per 
cent  of  the  land  area  and  twenty-four  per  cent  of  the  popula- 
tion of  Africa. 

So  silently,  swiftly,  and  unobtrusively  have  the 
French  empire-builders  worked  that  even  those  of  us 
who  pride  ourselves  on  keeping  abreast  of  the  march 
of  civilisation  are  fairly  amazed  when  we  trace  on  the 
map  the  distances  to  which  they  have  pushed  the  Re- 
public's African  frontiers.  Did  you  happen  to  know  that 
the  fugitive  from  justice  who  turns  the  nose  of  his  camel 
southward  from  Algiers  must  ride  as  far  as  from  Mil- 
waukee to  the  City  of  Mexico  before  he  can  pass  be- 
yond the  shadow  of  the  tricolour  and  the  arm  of  the 
French  law?  Were  you  aware  that  if  you  start  from 
the  easternmost  boundary  of  the  French  Sudan  you 
will  have  to  cover  a  distance  equal  to  that  from  Buffalo 
to  San  Francisco  before  you  can  hear  the  Atlantic 
rollers  booming  against  the  break-water  at  Dakar? 
It  is,  indeed,  not  the  slightest  exaggeration  to  say  that 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

French  influence  is  to-day  predominant  over  all  that 
expanse  of  the  Dark  Continent  lying  west  of  the  Nile 
basin  and  north  of  the  Congo — a  territory  one  and  a  half 
times  the  size  of  the  United  States — thus  forming  the 
only  continuous  empire  in  Africa,  with  ports  on  every 
seaboard  of  the  continent. 

With  the  exception  of  the  negro  republic  of  Liberia 
(on  whose  frontiers,  by  the  way,  France  is  steadily 
and  systematically  encroaching),  the  little  patches  of 
British  and  Spanish  possessions  on  the  West  Coast,  and 
the  German  colonies  of  Kamerun  and  Togoland,  France 
has  unostentatiously  brought  under  her  control  that 
enormous  tract  of  African  soil  which  stretches  from  the 
banks  of  the  Congo  to  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean, 
and  from  the  Atlantic  seaboard  to  the  Valley  of  the  Nile. 
Algeria  has  been  French  for  three-quarters  of  a  century, 
being  regarded,  indeed,  as  a  part  of  France  and  not  a 
colony  at  all.  Though  the  Bey  of  Tunis  still  holds  per- 
functory audiences  in  his  Palace  of  the  Bardo,  it  is  from 
the  French  Residency  that  the  protectorate  is  really 
ruled.  Though  Tripolitania  has  passed  under  Italian 
dominion,  it  is  French  and  not  Italian  influence  which  is 
recognised  by  the  unsubjugated  tribesmen  of  the  hinter- 
land. And  now,  after  years  of  intrigue  and  machina- 
tions, which  twice  have  brought  her  to  the  brink  of  war, 
France,  by  one  of  the  most  remarkable  diplomatic  vic- 
tories of  our  time,  has  won  the  last  of  the  world's  great 
territorial  prizes  and  has  set  the  capstone  on  her  co- 
lonial edifice  by  adding  the  empire  of  Morocco — under 
the  guise  of  a  protectorate — to  her  oversea  domain. 

3 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

On  the  West  Coast  the  tricolour  floats  over  the 
colonies  of  Senegal,  French  Guinea,  the  Ivory  Coast, 
Dahomey,  Upper  Senegal-Niger,  and  Mauritania  (the 
last  named  a  newly  organised  colony  formed  from  por- 
tions of  the  Moroccan  hinterland),  the  combined  area 
of  these  possessions  alone  being  about  equal  to  that  of 
European  Russia. 

From  the  Congo  northward  to  the  confines  of  the 
Anglo-Egyptian  Sudan  stretches  the  great  colony  of 
French  Equatorial  Africa— formerly  known  as  the  French 
Congo— the  acquirement  of  which  by  Savorgnan  de 
Brazza,  counterchecked  the  ambitious  plans  of  Stanley 
and  his  patron,  King  Leopold,  thus  forming  one  of  the 
most  dramatic  incidents  in  the  scramble  for  Africa. 
Though  potentially  the  most  valuable  of  the  French 
West  African  possessions,  being  enormously  rich  in 
both  jungle  and  mineral  products,  notably  rubber, 
ivory,  and  copper,  France  has  taken  surprisingly  little 
interest  in  this  colony's  development,  and,  as  a  result, 
it  has  been  permitted  to  fall  into  a  state  of  almost  piti- 
ful neglect.  There  are  two  causes  for  the  backwardness 
of  French  Equatorial  Africa:  first,  its  atrocious  climate, 
the  whole  territory  being  a  breeding-ground  for  small- 
pox, blood  diseases,  tropical  fevers  in  their  most  virulent 
forms,  and,  worst  of  all,  the  terrible  sleeping-sickness; 
second,  the  almost  total  lack  of  easy  means  of  com- 
munication, the  back  door  through  the  Belgian  Congo 
being  the  only  direct  means  of  access  to  the  greater  part 
of  the  colony,  which  was  virtually  cut  in  half  by  the 
broad  area  lying  between  the  southern  boundary  of 

4 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

Kamerun  and  the  equator  and  extending  eastward 
from  the  coast  to  the  Ubangi  River,  which  France  ceded 
to  Germany  in  191 1  as  a  quid  pro  quo  for  being  permitted 
a  free  hand  in  Morocco,  and  which  has  been  renamed 
"New  Kamerun. "  Though  the  economic  development 
of  this  region  must  prove,  under  any  circumstances,  a 
difficult,  dangerous,  and  discouraging  task,  it  can  be  ac- 
complished if  the  government  will  divert  its  attention 
from  its  projects  in  North  Africa  long  enough  to  make 
Libreville  a  decent  port,  to  provide  adequate  steamer 
services  on  the  great  rivers  that  intersect  the  colony, 
and  to  link  up  those  rivers  with  each  other  and  with  the 
coast  by  a  system  of  railways. 

Lying  on  the  northern  frontier  of  French  Equatorial 
Africa,  and  separating  it  from  the  Sahara,  is  the  great 
Central  African  state  of  Kanem,  with  its  organised 
native  government,  its  important  commerce,  and  its 
considerably  developed  civilisation,  which  was  com- 
pletely subjugated  by  France  in  1903,  Wadai,  its  power- 
ful neighbour  to  the  east,  accepting  a  French  protector- 
ate in  the  same  year.  In  the  centre  of  this  ring  of 
colonies  lie  the  million  and  a  half  square  miles  of  the 
French  Sahara,  which  the  experiments  of  the  French 
engineers  have  proved  to  be  as  capable  of  irrigation 
and  cultivation  as  the  one-time  deserts  of  our  own 
Southwest.  Off  the  other  side  of  the  continent  is  the 
great  colony  of  Madagascar,  the  second  largest  island 
in  the  world,  in  itself  considerably  larger  than  the 
mother  country;  while  the  French  Somali  Coast  forms 
the  sole  gateway  to  Abyssinia  and  divides  with  the 

5 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

British  colony  of  Aden  the  control  of  the  southern  en- 
trance to  the  Red  Sea.  Everything  considered,  his- 
tory can  show  few  parallels  to  this  marvellous  colonial 
expansion,  begun  while  France  was  still  suffering  from 
the  effects  of  the  disastrous  Prussian  War,  and  quietly 
carried  on  under  the  very  eyes  of  greedy  and  jealous 
neighbours. 

The  territorial  ambitions  of  most  countries  have 
been  blazoned  to  the  world  by  many  wars.  It  took  Eng- 
land two  disastrous  campaigns  to  win  South  Africa  and 
two  more  to  conquer  the  Sudan;  Russia  learned  the 
same  lesson  in  Manchuria  at  even  a  more  terrible  cost; 
while  Italy's  insecure  foothold  on  the  Red  Sea  shore  was 
purchased  by  the  annihilation  of  an  army.  Where 
other  nations  have  won  their  colonial  possessions  by 
arms,  France  has  won  hers  by  adroitness.  Always  her 
policy  has  been  one  of  pacific  penetration.  Trace  the 
history  of  her  African  expansion  and  you  will  find  no 
Majuba  Hill,  no  Omdurman,  no  Adowa,  no  Modder 
River.  Time  and  time  again  the  accomplishments  of 
her  small  and  unheralded  expeditions  have  proved 
that  more  territory  can  be  won  by  beads  and  brass  wire 
than  by  rifles  and  machine-guns. 

Not  long  ago  I  asked  the  governor-general  of  Alge- 
ria what  he  considered  the  most  important  factors  in 
the  remarkable  spread  of  French  influence  and  civilisa- 
tion in  North  Africa,  and  he  answered,  "Public  schools, 
the  American  phonograph,  and  the  American  sewing- 
machine."  The  most  casual  traveller  cannot  but  be 
impressed  by  the  thoroughness  with  which  France  has 

6 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

gone  into  the  schoolmaster  business  in  her  African 
dominions.  She  believes  that  the  best  way  to  civilise 
native  races  is  by  training  their  minds,  and  she  does  not 
leave  so  important  a  work  to  the  missionaries,  either. 
In  Algiers  there  is  a  government  university  with  nearly 
two  thousand  students  and  a  faculty  of  one  hundred 
professors,  while  in  more  than  eighteen  hundred  second- 
ary, primary,  and  infant  schools  the  youth  of  Algeria, 
irrespective  of  whether  they  believe  in  Christ,  in 
Abraham,  or  in  Mohammed,  are  being  taught  how  to 
become  decent  and  patriotic  citizens  of  France.  In 
Tunisia  alone  there  are  something  over  fifteen  hundred 
educational  institutions;  all  down  the  fever-stricken 
West  Coast,  under  the  palm-thatched  roofs  of  Mada- 
gascar and  the  crackling  tin  ones  of  Equatoria,  millions 
of  dusky  youngsters  are  being  taught  by  Gallic  school- 
masters that  p-a-t-r-i-e  spells  "France,"  and  the  mean- 
ing of  "Liberie,  Egalite,  Fraternite."  To  these  patient, 
plodding,  persevering  men,  whether  they  wear  the  white 
linen  of  the  civil  service  or  the  sombre  cassocks  of  the 
religious  orders,  I  lift  my  hat  in  respect  and  admiration, 
for  they  are  the  real  pioneers  of  progress.  If  I  had  my 
way,  the  scarlet  ribbon  of  the  Legion  would  be  in  the 
button-hole  of  every  one  of  them.  We  too  may  claim 
a  share  in  this  work  of  civilisation,  for  I  have  seen  a 
band  of  savage  Arab  raiders,  their  fierce  hawk-faces 
lighted  up  by  the  dung-fed  camp-fire,  held  spellbound 
by  the  strains  of  a  Yankee  phonograph;  and  I  have  seen 
the  garments  of  a  tribal  chieftain  of  Central  Africa  be- 
ing fashioned  on  an  American  sewing-machine. 

7 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

"When  the  English  occupy  a  country, "  runs  a  say- 
ing which  they  have  in  Africa,  "the  first  thing  they 
build  is  a  custom-house;  the  first  thing  the  Germans 
build  is  a  "barracks;  but  the  first  thing  the  French 
build  is  a  railway. "  Nothing,  indeed,  is  more  signifi- 
cant of  the  civilising  work  done  by  the  French  in  these 
almost  unknown  lands  than  the  means  of  communica- 
tion, there  being  in  operation  to-day  in  French  Africa 
six  thousand  miles  of  railway,  twenty-five  thousand 
miles  of  telegraph,  and  ten  thousand  miles  of  telephone. 
Think  of  being  able  to  buy  a  return  ticket  from  Paris 
to  Timbuktu;  of  telegraphing  Christmas  greetings  to 
your  family  in  Tarry  town  or  Back  Bay  or  Bryn  Mawr 
from  the  shores  of  Lake  Tchad;  or  of  sitting  in  the 
American  consulate  at  Tamatave  and  chatting  with  a 
friend  in  Antanarivo,  three  hundred  miles  away.  Why, 
only  the  other  day  the  Sultan  of  Morocco,  at  Fez,  sent 
birthday  congratulations  to  the  President  of  France,  at 
Paris,  by  wireless. 

To-day  one  can  travel  on  an  admirably  ballasted 
road-bed,  in  an  electric-lighted  sleeping-car,  with  hot 
and  cold  running  water  in  your  compartment,  and  with 
a  dining-car  ahead,  along  that  entire  stretch  of  the  Bar- 
bary  Coast  lying  between  the  Moroccan  and  Tripolita- 
nian  frontiers,  which,  withinthe  memory  of  our  fathers, 
was  the  most  notorious  pirate  stronghold  in  the  world. 
A  strategic  line  has  been  built  six  hundred  miles  south- 
ward from  the  coast  city  of  Oran  to  Colomb-Bechar,  in 
the  Sahara,  with  Timbuktu  as  its  eventual  destination, 
and,  now  that  the  long-standing  Moroccan  controversy 

8 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

has  been  settled  for  good  and  all,  another  railway  is 
already  being  pushed  forward  from  Ujda,  on  the  Alge- 
rian-Moroccan border,  and  in  another  year  or  two  the 
shriek  of  the  locomotive  will  be  heard  under  the  walls 
of  Fez  the  Forbidden.  From  Constantine,  in  Algeria, 
another  line  of  rails  is  crawling  southward  via  Biskra 
into  the  Sahara,  with  Lake  Tchad  as  its  objective,  thus 
opening  up  to  European  commerce  the  great  protected 
states  of  Kanem  and  Wadai.  From  Dakar,  on  the  coast 
of  Senegal,  a  combined  rail  and  river  service  is  in  opera- 
tion to  the  Great  Bend  of  the  Niger,  so  that  one  can  now 
go  to  the  mysterious  city  of  Timbuktu  by  train  and  river 
steamer,  in  considerable  comfort  and  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  French  flag  all  the  way.  In  Dahomey, 
within  the  memory  of  all  of  us  a  notorious  cannibal 
kingdom,  a  railway  is  under  construction  to  Nikki,  four 
hundred  miles  into  the  steaming  jungle;  from  Ko- 
nakry,  the  capital  of  French  Guinea,  a  line  has  just 
been  opened  to  Kourassa,  three  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
from  anywhere;  while  even  the  fever-stricken,  voodoo- 
worshipping  Ivory  Coast  boasts  two  hundred  miles  or 
so  of  well-built  line  with  its  rail-head  already  half-way 
from  the  coast  to  Jimini.  From  Tamatave,  the  chief 
seaport  of  Madagascar,  you  can  go  by  rail  to  the  capital, 
Antanarivo,  three  hundred  miles  up  into  the  mountains, 
and,  if  you  wish  to  continue  across  the  island,  govern- 
ment motor-cars  will  run  you  down,  over  roads  that 
would  make  the  Glidden  tourists  envious,  to  Majunga, 
on  the  other  side.  From  Djibouti,  the  capital  of  the 
French  Somali  Coast,  another  railway  has  been  pushed 

9 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

as  far  up-country  as  Dire-Dawah,  in  Menelik's  domin- 
ions (fare  sixty  dollars  for  the  round  trip  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  miles),  thus  diverting  the  lucrative  trade  of 
Abyssinia  from  the  British  Sudan  to  the  French  marts 
in  Somaliland. 

France  has  more  good  harbours  on  the  coasts  of 
Africa  than  all  the  other  nations  put  together.  Algiers, 
with  one  of  the  finest  roadsteads  in  the  world,  is  now 
the  most  important  coaling-station  in  the  Mediterranean 
and  a  port  of  call  for  nearly  all  of  the  lines  plying  be- 
tween America  and  the  Near  East;  by  the  construction 
of  a  great  ship-canal  the  French  engineers  have  made 
Tunis  directly  accessible  to  ocean-going  vessels,  thus 
restoring  the  maritime  importance  of  Carthage  to  her 
successor;  with  Tangier  under  French  control,  a  naval 
base  will  doubtless  eventually  be  constructed  there 
which  will  rival  Toulon  and  will  divide  with  Gibraltar 
the  control  of  the  entrance  to  the  Mediterranean.  With 
its  entire  western  portion  dominated  by  the  great  French 
ports  of  Villefranche,  Toulon,  Ajaccio,  Marseilles,  Oran, 
Algiers,  and  Bizerta,  the  Mediterranean  is  well  on  the 
road  to  becoming,  as  Napoleon  once  prophesied,  a 
French  lake. 

But,  though  good  harbours  are  taken  rather  as  a 
matter  of  course  in  the  Mediterranean,  one  hardly  ex- 
pects to  find  them  on  the  reef-bordered  West  Coast, 
which  is  pounded  by  a  ceaseless  and  merciless  surf. 
At  all  of  the  British,  German,  Spanish,  and  Portuguese 
ports  in  West  Africa,  save  one,  you  are  lowered  from 
the  steamer's  heaving  deck  into  a  dancing  surf-boat  by 

10 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

means  of  a  contrivance  called  the  "mammy  chair,"  and 
are  taken  ashore  by  a  score  of  ebony  giants  who  ply 
their  trident-shaped  paddles  madly  in  their  desperate 
efforts  to  prevent  your  being  capsized.  Alternately 
scorched  by  the  sun  and  soaked  by  the  waves,  you  are 
landed,  about  three  times  out  of  four,  on  a  beach  as 
hot  as  though  of  molten  brass.  The  fourth  time,  how- 
ever, your  Kroo  boys  are  not  quite  quick  enough  to 
escape  the  crest  of  one  of  those  mighty  combers — and 
you  can  thank  your  lucky  stars  if  you  get  ashore  at  all. 
This  is  the  method  by  which  every  passenger  and  every 
bale  of  merchandise  is  landed  on  the  West  Coast  and 
it  is  very  dangerous  and  unpleasant  and  costly.  But 
when  you  come  to  the  French  port  of  Dakar,  instead  of 
being  dangled  between  sea  and  sky  in  a  bo's'n's  chair 
and  dropped  sprawling  into  the  bottom  of  a  pitching 
surf-boat,  and  being  paddled  frantically  ashore  by  a 
crew  of  perspiring  negroes,  you  lounge  in  a  cane  chair 
on  an  awning-covered  deck  while  your  vessel  steams 
grandly  in,  straight  alongside  a  concrete  wharf  which 
would  do  credit  to  the  Hudson  River,  and  a  steam 
crane  dips  down  into  the  hold  and  lifts  the  cargo  out, 
a  dozen  tons  at  a  time,  and  loads  it  on  a  waiting  train 
to  be  transported  into  the  heart  of  Africa,  and  as  you 
lean  over  the  rail,  marvelling  at  the  modernity  and  effi- 
ciency which  characterise  everything  in  sight,  you  won- 
der if  you  are  really  in  the  Dark  Continent,  or  if  you 
are  back  in  America  again. 

But  if  the  French  harbours  are  amazingly  good,  the 
French  vessels  which  drop  anchor  in  them  are,  for  the 

ii 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

most  part,  amazingly  bad.  The  Messageries  Mari- 
times,  a  highly  subsidised  line  which  has  a  virtual  mo- 
nopoly of  the  French  colonial  passenger  trade,  and 
which  is  notorious  for  its  we-don't-care-whether-you- 
like-it-or-not  attitude,  has  the  worst  vessels  that  I 
know,  bar  none,  and  charges  the  most  exorbitant  fares. 
If  you  wish  to  visit  the  Somali  Coast,  or  Madagascar, 
or  Reunion,  you  will  have  to  take  this  line,  because  there 
is  no  other,  but  elsewhere  along  the  coasts  of  Africa  you 
will  do  well  to  follow  my  advice  and  travel  under  the 
British  or  the  German  flag. 

The  struggle  of  the  French  colonial  army  to  main- 
tain law  and  order  along  the  vast  reaches  of  France's 
African  frontiers  forms  one  of  the  most  thrilling  and 
romantic  chapters  in  the  history  of  colonial  expansion. 
Theirs  has  been  a  work  of  tact,  rather  than  of  force,  for, 
where  England,  Germany,  Italy,  and  Belgium  have  used 
the  iron  hand  in  dealing  with  the  natives,  France,  more 
farsighted,  has  seen  the  wisdom  of  hiding  it  within  the 
velvet  glove.  Always  she  has  conciliated  the  Moslem. 
She  has  safeguarded  the  privacy  of  his  mosques  and 
harems;  she  has  encouraged  by  government  subsidies 
his  schools  and  universities;  instead  of  desecrating  the 
tombs  of  his  holy  men,  she  has  whitewashed  them;  the 
burnooses  of  the  great  tribal  and  religious  chieftains  are 
brilliant  with  French  decorations;  the  native  mollahs 
and  cadis  are  utilised  as  local  magistrates  in  all  except 
the  gravest  cases  or  those  involving  a  European.  To 
attempt  to  govern  a  country  without  those,  or  against 
those,  to  whom  it  belonged,  is  a  blunder  of  which  France 

12 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

has  never  been  guilty.  It  has  been  the  consistent 
policy  of  other  European  nations,  on  the  contrary, 
neither  to  trust  the  natives  nor  to  treat  them  with  any 
degree  of  consideration.  Hence  the  ominous  unrest  in 
India;  hence  the  ever  louder  murmur  of  "Egypt 
for  the  Egyptians"!  hence  the  refusal  of  the  natives  of 
German  East  Africa  to  work  on  German-owned  planta- 
tions and  their  wholesale  emigration  from  that  colony; 
hence  the  fact  that  no  Italian  official  in  Eritrea  or 
Benadir  dares  venture  outside  the  town  walls  unarmed 
and  unescorted,  nor  will  in  Tripolitania  for  many  years 
to  come.  I  have  been  assured  repeatedly  by  North 
African  sheikhs  that,  should  France  become  involved  in 
a  European  war,  her  native  soldiery  would  volunteer 
almost  to  a  man.  That  England  is  far  from  certain 
how  her  Egyptian  and  Sudanese  troops  would  behave  in 
such  a  contingency  is  best  proved  by  the  formidable 
British  garrisons  which  she  deems  it  wise  to  maintain 
in  the  land  of  the  Valley  of  the  Nile. 

I  am  but  reflecting  the  opinions  of  many  highly 
placed  and  intimately  informed  European  officials  in 
North  Africa  when  I  assert  that  Germany's  repeated  in- 
terference with  the  French  programme  in  Morocco  was 
due  as  much  to  military  as  to  political  reasons,  the  Ger- 
mans using  this  means  to  hinder  the  expansion  of  that 
mysterious  force  noire  which  has  long  been  a  bugaboo  to 
the  War  Office  authorities  in  Berlin.  Whether  this  was 
the  true  reason  or  not  for  Germany's  attitude  in  the 
Moroccan  business,  no  one  knows  better  than  the  Ger- 
man general  staff  that,  in  the  event  of  war,  the  Republic 

13 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

would  be  able  to  advance  a  great  black  army  to  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine  in  thirty  days — and  that  she  would 
not  be  deterred  by  the  scruples  which  prevented  her 
utilising  her  African  soldiery  in  1870.  It  has  been  re- 
peatedly urged,  indeed,  that  the  numerical  inferiority 
of  the  annual  French  conscription,  as  compared  with 
that  of  Germany,  be  made  up  for  by  drafting  a  corps  of 
black  troops  drawn  from  French  West  Africa  into  the 
continental  army.  France  has  already  recruited  very 
close  to  twenty  thousand  native  troops — which  is  the 
strength  of  an  army  corps — in  her  West  African  posses- 
sions alone,  and  as  any  scheme  for  drafting  it  into 
Algeria,  so  as  to  enable  the  French  troops  stationed 
there  to  be  available  elsewhere,  would  instantly  arouse 
the  Arab  population  to  revolt,  it  is  highly  probable  that 
this  African  army  corps  would,  in  case  of  war,  be  em- 
ployed on  the  European  continent.  Though  France's 
African  army  does  not  at  present  number  much  over 
fifty  thousand  men — all  well  drilled,  highly  disciplined, 
and  modernly  armed — the  French  drill-sergeants  in 
Africa  are  not  idle  and  have  limitless  resources  to  draw 
from.  The  population  of  the  negro  states  under 
French  protection  runs  into  many  millions,  and  would 
easily  yield  twenty  per  cent  of  fighting  men,  while 
the  acquisition  of  Morocco  has  added  the  Berbers, 
that  strange,  warlike,  Caucasian  race,  to  the  Republic's 
fighting  line.  Nothing  pleases  the  African  as  an  occu- 
pation more  than  soldiering,  his  native  physique,  cour- 
age, and  endurance  making  him,  with  amazingly  little 
training,  a  first-class  fighting  man.    It  is  no  great  won- 

14 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

der,  then,  that  Germany  looks  askance  at  the  formidable 
army  which  her  rival  is  building  up  so  quietly  but  so 
steadily  on  the  other  side  of  the  Middle  Sea. 

No  small  part  in  the  winning  of  North  Africa  has 
been  played  by  the  Foreign  Legion — how  the  name 
smacks  of  romance ! — that  picturesque  company  of  ad- 
venturers, soldiers  of  fortune,  and  ne'er-do-weels,  ten 
thousand  strong,  most  of  whom  serve  under  the  French 
flag  in  preference  to  serving  in  their  own  prisons.  In  this 
notorious  corps  the  French  Government  enlists  without 
question  any  physically  fit  man  who  applies.  It  asks 
no  questions  and  expects  to  be  told  any  number  of  lies. 
It  trains  them  until  they  are  as  hard  as  nails  and  as 
tough  as  rawhide;  it  works  them  as  a  negro  teamster 
works  a  Kentucky  mule;  it  pays  them  wages  which 
would  cause  a  strike  among  Chinese  coolies;  and,  when 
the  necessity  arises,  it  sends  them  into  action  with  the 
assurance  that  there  will  be  no  French  widows  to  be 
pensioned.  So  unenviable  is  the  reputation  of  the 
Legionnaires  that  even  the  Algerian  desert  towns  balk 
at  their  being  stationed  in  the  vicinity,  for  nothing 
from  hen-roost  to  harem  is  safe  from  their  depreda- 
tions; so  they  are  utilised  on  the  most  remote  frontiers 
in  time  of  peace  and  invariably  form  the  advance  guard 
in  time  of  war.  It  is  commonly  said  that  when  the 
Legion  goes  into  action  its  officers  take  the  precaution 
of  marching  in  the  rear,  so  as  not  to  be  shot  in  the  back, 
but  that  is  probably  a  libel  which  the  regiment  does  not 
deserve.  Wherever  the  musketry  is  crackling  along 
France's  colonial  frontiers,  there  this  Legion  of  the 

15 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Damned  is  to  be  found,  those  who  wear  its  uniform  be- 
ing, for  the  most  part,  bearers  of  notorious  or  illustrious 
names  who  have  chosen  to  fight  under  an  alien  flag  be- 
cause they  are  either  afraid  or  ashamed  to  show  them- 
selves under  their  own. 

Several  times  each  year  it  is  customary  for  the  com- 
mandants of  the  French  posts  along  the  edge  of  the 
Sahara  to  organise  fantasias  in  honour  of  the  Arab 
sheikhs  of  the  region,  who  come  in  to  attend  them,  fol- 
lowed by  great  retinues  of  burnoosed,  turbaned,  and 
splendidly  mounted  retainers,  with  the  same  enthusiasm 
with  which  an  American  countryside  turns  out  to  see 
the  circus.  At  one  of  these  affairs,  held  in  southern 
Algeria,  I  could  not  but  contrast  the  marked  attentions 
paid  by  the  French  officials  to  the  native  chieftains  with 
the  cavalier  and  frequently  insolent  attitude  invaria- 
bly assumed  by  British  officials  toward  Egyptians  of 
all  ranks,  not  even  excepting  the  Khedive.  Were  a 
French  official  to  affront  one  of  the  great  Arab  sheikhs 
as  Lord  Kitchener  did  the  Khedive,  when  he  exacted 
an  apology  from  his  Highness  for  presuming  to  criticise 
the  discipline  of  the  Sudanese  troops,  he  would  be 
fortunate  indeed  if  he  escaped  summary  dismissal. 

At  the  fantasia  in  question  luxuriously  furnished 
tents  had  been  erected  for  the  comfort  of  the  native 
guests;  a  champagne  luncheon  provided  the  excuse  for 
innumerable  protestations  of  friendship;  a  series  of 
races  with  money  prizes  was  arranged  for  the  visitors* 
horses;  and,  before  leaving,  the  sheikhs  were  presented 
with  ornate  saddles,  gold-mounted  rifles,  and,  in  the 

16 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

cases  of  the  more  important  chieftains,  with  crosses  of 
the  Legion  of  Honour.  In  return  for  this  they  willingly 
agreed  to  capture  and  surrender  certain  fugitives  from 
justice  who  had  fled  into  the  desert;  to  warn  the  more 
lawless  of  their  tribesmen  that  the  plundering  of  cara- 
vans must  cease;  to  furnish  specified  quotas  of  recruits 
for  the  native  cavalry;  and  to  send  in  for  sale  to  the 
Remount  Department  a  large  number  of  desert-bred 
horses.  And,  which  is  the  most  important  of  all,  they 
go  back  to  their  tented  homes  in  the  desert  immensely 
impressed  with  the  power,  the  wealth,  and  the  generosity 
of  France. 

Not  content  with  these  periodic  manifestations  of 
friendship,  the  French  Government  makes  it  a  point  oc- 
casionally to  invite  the  native  rulers  of  the  lands  under 
its  control  to  visit  France  as  the  guests  of  the  nation. 
Escorted  by  French  officers  who  can  talk  with  them  in 
their  own  tongue,  these  colonial  visitors  in  their  out- 
landish costumes  are  shown  the  delights  of  Montmartre 
by  night,  they  are  dined  by  the  President  of  the  Re- 
public at  the  Elysee,  they  are  given  the  freedom  of 
Paris  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  they  finally  return  to 
their  own  lands  the  friends  and  allies  of  France  for"the 
rest  of  their  lives.  "It  doesn't  cost  the  government 
much,"  an  official  of  the  French  Colonial  Office  once 
remarked  to  me,  a  propos  of  a  visit  then  being  paid  to 
Paris  by  the  King  of  Cambodia,  "and  it  tickles  the 
niggers." 

Straggling  down  here  and  there  into  the  desert  from 
some  of  the  North  African  coast  towns  go  the  trade 

17 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

routes  of  the  caravans,  and  it  is  the  protection  of  these 
trade  routes,  traversing,  as  they  do,  a  territory  half 
again  as  large  as  that  of  the  United  States,  that  is  en- 
trusted to  the  twelve  hundred  meharistes  composing 
France's  Saharan  forces.  By  a  network  of  small  oasis 
garrisons  and  desert  patrols,  recruited  from  the  desert 
tribes  and  mounted  on  the  tall,  swift-trotting  camels 
known  as  tnehari,  France  has  made  the  Saharan  trade- 
routes,  if  not  as  safe  as  Fifth  Avenue  or  Piccadilly,  cer- 
tainly very  much  safer  for  the  lone  traveller  than  lower 
Clark  Street,  in  Chicago,  or  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Paris  Holies.  It  has  long  been  the  fashion  to  hold  up 
the  Northwest  Mounted  Police  as  the  model  for  all 
constabulary  forces,  just  as  it  has  been  the  fashion  to 
extol  the  English  as  the  model  colonisers,  but,  taking 
into  consideration  the  fewness  of  their  numbers,  the 
vastness  of  the  region  which  they  control,  and  the  char- 
acter of  its  climate  and  its  inhabitants,  I  give  the  blue 
ribbon  to  these  lean,  brown-faced,  hard-riding  camel- 
men  who  have  carried  law  and  order  into  the  further- 
most corners  of  the  Great  Sahara. 

Though  comparatively  unfertile,  the  Sahara  vastly 
influences  the  surrounding  regions,  just  as  the  Atlan- 
tic Ocean  influences  the  countries  which  border  on  it. 
Were  commerce  to  be  seriously  interrupted  upon  the 
Atlantic,  financial  hardships  would  inevitably  result 
in  the  countries  on  either  side.  So  it  is,  then,  with  the 
Sahara,  which  is,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  an  inland 
ocean.  Ever  since  the  caravan  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
brought  gifts  to  King  Solomon,  ever  since  Abraham 

18 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

came  riding  down  from  Ur,  it  has  been  customary  for 
the  nomad  Arab  rulers  through  whose  territories  the 
desert  trade  routes  pass  to  exact  heavy  tribute  from  the 
caravan  sheikhs,  the  Bilma  trans-Saharan  route  alone 
being  plundered  annually  to  the  tune  of  ten  million 
francs  until  the  coming  of  the  French  camel  police. 
Many  of  these  great  trade  caravans,  you  will  under- 
stand, are  literally  moving  cities,  sometimes  consisting 
of  as  many  as  twelve  thousand  camels,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  accompanying  horses,  donkeys,  sheep,  and  goats. 
To  outfit  such  a  caravan  often  takes  a  year  or  more, 
frequently  at  a  cost  of  more  than  one  million  dollars, 
the  money  being  subscribed  in  varying  sums  by  thou- 
sands of  merchants  and  petty  traders  dwelling  in  the 
region  whence  it  starts.  It  is  obvious,  therefore,  that 
the  looting  of  such  a  caravan  might  well  spell  ruin  for 
the  people  of  a  whole  district;  and  it  is  by  her  successful 
protection  of  the  caravan  routes  that  France  has  earned 
the  gratitude  of  the  peoples  of  all  those  regions  border- 
ing on  the  Great  Sahara.  But  the  days  of  the  caravan 
trade  are  numbered,  for  the  telegraph  wires  which  al- 
ready stretch  across  the  desert  from  the  Mediterranean 
coast  towns  to  the  French  outposts  in  the  Congo,  the 
Senegal,  and  the  Sudan,  are  but  forerunners  to  herald 
the  coming  of  the  iron  horse. 

France's  path  of  colonial  expansion  in  Africa  has 
been  remarkably  free  from  obstructions,  for,  barring  the 
Algerian  campaign  of  1830,  and  the  German-created 
incidents  in  Morocco,  she  has  acquired  her  vast  domain 
— close  on  half  the  total  area  of  the  continent — at  a 

19 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

surprisingly  low  cost  in  money  and  lives.  The  only 
time,  indeed,  when  her  African  ambitions  received  a 
serious  setback  was  in  1898,  at  Fashoda  (now  known  as 
Kodok),  on  the  White  Nile,  when  the  French  explorer, 
Major  Marchand,  yielded  to  the  peremptory  demand 
of  Lord  Kitchener  and  hauled  down  the  tricolour  which 
he  had  raised  at  that  remote  spot,  thus  losing  to  France 
the  whole  of  the  Western  Sudan  and  the  control  of  the 
head-waters  of  the  Nile. 

There  is  an  interesting  bit  of  secret  diplomatic  his- 
tory in  this  connection.  The  story  has  been  told  me  by 
both  French  and  British  officials — and  there  is  good 
reason  to  believe  that  it  is  true — that  the  French  Gov- 
ernment had  planned,  in  case  Marchand  was  able  to 
hold  his  position  until  reinforcements  arrived,  to  divert 
the  waters  of  the  White  Nile,  at  a  point  near  its  junction 
with  the  Sobat  River,  into  the  Sahara,  an  undertaking 
which,  owing  to  the  physical  characteristics  of  that 
region,  would,  so  the  French  engineers  claimed,  have 
been  entirely  feasible.  France  would  thus  have  accom- 
plished the  twofold  purpose  of  irrigating  her  desert 
territory  and  of  turning  Egypt  into  a  desert  by  divert- 
ing her  only  supply  of  water;  for  this,  remember,  was  in 
those  bitter,  jealous  days  before  the  Anglo-French  en- 
tente. It  was,  indeed,  the  intelligence  that  the  Khalifa 
proposed,  by  doing  this  very  thing,  to  bring  Egypt  to 
her  knees  that  caused  the  second  Sudanese  expedition 
to  be  pushed  forward  so  rapidly.  (I  should  add  that  the 
idea,  once  so  popular  in  France,  of  turning  the  Sahara 
into  an  inland  sea,  has  been  proven  impracticable,  if  not 

20 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

impossible.)  It  is  safe  to  say  that  England's  prime  rea- 
son for  clinging  so  tenaciously,  and  at  such  heavy  cost, 
to  the  arid  tract  known  as  the  Anglo-Egyptian  Sudan,  is 
to  safeguard  Egyptian  prosperity  by  keeping  control  of 
the  head-waters  of  the  Nile.  To  illustrate  how  com- 
pletely the  Nile  is  the  barometer  of  Egyptian  prosperity, 
I  might  add  that  the  last  time  I  was  in  Khartoum 
the  officials  of  the  Sudanese  Irrigation  Service  com- 
plained to  me  most  bitterly  that  they  were  being 
seriously  hampered  in  their  work  of  desert  reclamation 
by  the  restrictions  placed  upon  the  quantity  of  water 
which  they  were  permitted  to  divert  from  the  Nile,  a 
comparatively  small  diversion  from  the  upper  reaches 
of  the  river  causing  wide-spread  distress  among  the 
Egyptian  agriculturists  a  thousand  miles  down-stream. 
Because  the  map-makers  from  time  beyond  reckon- 
ing have  seen  fit  to  paint  the  northern  half  of  the  African 
continent  a  speckled  yellow,  most  of  us  have  been  ac- 
customed to  look  upon  this  region  as  an  arid,  sun-baked, 
worthless  desert.  But  French  explorers,  French  en- 
gineers, and  French  scientists  have  proved  that  it  is 
very  far  from  being  worthless  or  past  reclamation. 
M.  Henri  Schirmer,  the  latest  and  most  careful  student 
of  its  problems,  says:  "The  sterility  of  the  Sahara  is 
due  neither  to  the  form  of  the  land  nor  to  its  nature. 
The  alluvium  of  sand,  chalk,  and  gypsum  which  covers 
the  Algerian  Sahara  constitutes  equally  the  soil  of  the 
most  fertile  plains  in  the  world.  What  causes  the 
misery  of  one  and  the  wealth  of  the  other  is  the  absence 
or  the  presence  of  water."    Now,  an  extensive  series 

21 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

of  experiments  has  proven  that  the  Sahara,  like  the 
Great  American  Desert,  has  an  ample  supply  of  under- 
ground water,  which  in  many  cases  has  been  reached 
at  a  depth  of  only  forty  feet.  There  is,  incidentally, 
hardly  a  desert  where  the  experiment  has  been  tried, 
whether  in  Asia,  Africa,  or  America,  where  water  has 
not  been  found  within  two  thousand  feet  of  the  surface. 
Though  usually  not  sufficient  for  agriculture,  enough 
has  generally  been  found  to  afford  a  supply  for  cattle, 
railroads,  and  mines.  Three  striking  examples  of  what 
can  be  accomplished  by  scientific  well-drilling  in  arid 
lands  are  the  great  wells  of  the  Salton  Desert,  the  flow- 
ing wells  at  Benson,  Arizona,  and  a  supply  of  seven 
hundred  thousand  gallons  of  water  a  day  from  the  deep 
wells  on  the  mesa  at  El  Paso,  each  of  these  supplies  of 
water  being  obtained  from  localities  which  were  super- 
ficially hopelessly  dry. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  in  any  discussion  of 
North  Africa,  that  until  the  early  '8o's  the  Great  Ameri- 
can Desert  was  as  primitive,  waterless,  and  sparsely 
settled  a  region  as  the  Sahara.  Its  scattered  inhabitants 
practised  irrigation  and  agriculture  very  much  as  the 
people  of  southern  Algeria  and  Tunisia  do  to-day,  and, 
like  them,  they  constructed  buildings  of  unburnt  brick 
and  stone.  Though  the  Indian  was  able  to  find  a 
meagre  sustenance  upon  the  American  desert,  just  as 
the  Arab  does  upon  the  African,  it  was  of  a  kind  upon 
which  the  white  man  could  not  well  exist.  The  uncon- 
quered  Apaches  plundered  wagon-trains  and  mail- 
coaches  just  as  the  Tuareg  occasionally  plunders  the 

22 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

Saharan  trade  caravans  to-day,  and  the  only  white  men 
were  the  soldiers  at  scattered  and  lonely  posts  or  des- 
peradoes flying  from  the  law.  There  is,  indeed,  a 
striking  similarity  between  the  conditions  which  pre- 
vail to-day  along  France's  African  borders  and  those 
which  existed  within  the  memories  of  most  of  us  upon 
our  own  frontier. 

Then  the  railways  came  to  the  American  West, 
just  as  they  are  coming  to  North  Africa  to-day,  and  the 
desert  was  awakened  from  its  lethargy  of  centuries  by 
the  shriek  of  the  locomotive.  The  first  railroads  to  be 
constructed  were  designed  primarily  as  highways  be- 
tween the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific  seaboards,  with 
hardly  a  thought  of  revenue  from  the  desert  itself. 
But  hard  on  the  heels  of  the  railway-builders  followed 
the  miners  and  the  cattlemen,  so  that  to-day  the  iron 
highway  across  the  desert  is  bordered  by  prosperous 
cities  and  villages,  by  mines  and  oil-derricks  and  ranches 
and  white  farm-houses  with  green  blinds,  this  one-time 
arid  region,  which  the  wiseheads  of  thirty  years  ago 
pronounced  worthless,  now  yielding  a  wealth  twice  as 
much  per  capita  as  that  of  any  other  portion  of  the 
United  States. 

What  has  already  been  accomplished  in  the  Ameri- 
can desert,  French  brains,  French  energy,  and  French 
machinery  are  fast  accomphshing  in  the  Sahara. 
Thanks  to  the  recent  invention,  by  a  non-commissioned 
officer  of  France's  African  forces,  of  a  six-wheeled  motor- 
sledge  driven  by  a  light  but  powerful  aeroplane  engine, 
the  problem  of  rapid  communication  in  these  desert 

23 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

regions,  which  have  hitherto  been  impassable  to  any 
kind  of  animal  or  mechanical  traction,  has  been  solved. 
As  the  new  vehicle  has  proved  itself  capable  of  main- 
taining a  speed  over  sand  dunes  of  twenty  miles  an 
hour,  it  promises  to  be  of  invaluable  assistance  to  the 
French  in  their  work  of  opening  up  the  waste  places. 
Not  only  have  French  expeditions  explored  and  charted 
the  whole  of  the  unknown  regions,  but  they  have  thor- 
oughly investigated  the  commercial  possibilities  of  the 
immense  territories  which  have  recently  come  under 
their  control.  These  investigations  have  shown  that 
the  Sahara  is  very  far  from  being  the  sandy  plain,  flat 
as  a  billiard-table,  which  the  pictures  and  descriptions 
in  our  school  geographies  led  us  to  believe,  and  which 
the  reports  of  those  superficial  travellers  who  had  only 
journeyed  into  the  desert  as  far  as  Biskra,  in  Algeria, 
or  Ghadames,  in  Tripolitania,  confirmed,  but  is,  on  the 
contrary,  of  a  remarkably  varied  surface,  here  rising 
into  plateaus  like  those  of  Tibesti  and  Ahaggar,  there 
crossed  by  chains  of  large  and  fertile  oases,  and  again 
broken  into  mountain  ranges,  with  peaks  eight  thou- 
sand feet  high,  greater  than  the  Alleghanies  and  very 
nearly  as  great  as  the  Sierra  Nevadas. 

An  oasis,  by  the  way,  does  not  necessarily  consist, 
as  the  reading  public  seems  to  believe,  of  a  clump  of 
palm-trees  beside  a  brackish  well,  many  of  them  being 
great  stretches  of  well-watered  and  cultivated  soil, 
sometimes  many  square  miles  in  extent,  and  rich  in  fig, 
pomegranate,  orange,  apricot,  and  olive  trees.  The  oasis 
of  Kaouer,  for  example,  with  its  one  hundred  thousand 

24 


THE  THIRD  EMPIRE 

date-palms,  furnishes  subsistence  for  the  inhabitants  of 
a  score  of  straggling  villages,  with  their  camels,  flocks, 
and  herds.  There  are  said  to  be  four  million  date-palms 
in  the  oases  of  the  Algerian  Sahara  alone,  and  to  cut 
down  one  of  them  is  considered  as  much  of  a  crime  as 
arson  is  in  a  great  city,  for  its  fruit  is  a  sufficient  food, 
from  its  leaves  a  shelter  can  be  made  which  will  keep 
out  sun  and  wind  and  rain,  and  its  shade  protects 
life  and  cultivation.  Many  date  plantations  and  even 
vineyards  have  flourished  for  several  years  past  in 
southernmost  Algeria  by  means  of  water  from  below 
the  surface,  while  the  chief  of  the  French  geodetic  sur- 
vey recently  announced  that  a  tract  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  Sahara,  nine  degrees  in  longitude  by  twelve  de- 
grees in  latitude,  is  already  sufficiently  watered  for  the 
raising  of  grain.  The  reports  of  these  expeditions  and 
commissions  bear  with  painstaking  thoroughness  on 
the  productivity  of  the  soil,  the  suitability  of  the  cli- 
mate, the  existence  and  accessibility  of  forest  wealth, 
the  presence  and  probable  extent  of  mineral  veins,  and 
on  transportation  by  road,  rail,  and  river  over  all  that 
huge  territory  which  comprises  France's  African  empire. 
The  story  of  French  success  in  the  exploration,  the 
civilisation,  the  administration,  and  the  exploitation 
of  Africa  is  one  of  the  wonder-tales  of  history.  That 
she  has  relied  on  the  resources  of  science  rather  than 
on  those  of  militarism  makes  her  achievement  the 
more  remarkable,  for  where  England's  possessions  have 
largely  been  gained  by  punitive  expeditions,  France 
has  won  hers  by  pacific  penetration.    Look  at  Sene- 

25 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

gambia  as  it  is  now  under  French  rule,  and  compare  its 
condition  with  what  it  was  as  Mungo  Park  describes 
it  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century;  contrast  the 
modernised  Dahomey  of  to-day,  with  its  railways, 
schools,  and  hospitals,  with  the  blood-soaked,  cannibal 
country  of  the  early  '6o's;  remember  that  Algeria  has 
doubled  in  population  since  the  last  Dey,  by  striking 
the  French  consul  with  his  fan,  turned  his  country  into 
a  French  department — and  you  will  have  a  bird's-eye 
view,  as  it  were,  of  what  the  French  have  accomplished 
in  the  colonising  field. 

If  French  Africa  becomes  in  time  a  rich  and  pros- 
perous dominion — and  I  firmly  believe  that  it  will — it 
is  to  her  patient  and  intrepid  pioneers  of  civilisation — 
desert  patrols,  railway-builders,  well-drillers,  school- 
teachers, commercial  investigators — that  the  thanks  of 
the  nation  will  be  due;  for  they  are  pointing  the  way 
to  millions  of  natives,  on  whose  activities  and  necessi- 
ties the  commercial  development  of  Africa  must  event- 
ually depend.  So  I  trust  that  those  at  home  in  France 
will  give  all  honour  to  the  men  at  work  in  the  Sahara, 
the  Senegal,  and  the  Sudan  or  rotting  in  the  weed- 
grown,  snake-infested^cemeteries  of  the  Congo  and  So- 
maliland;  men  whose  battles  have  been  fought  out  in 
steaming  jungles  or  on  lonely  oases,  far  away  from 
home  and  friends  and  often  from  another  white  man's 
help  and  sympathy;  sometimes  with  savage  desert 
raiders,  or  in  action  against  Hausa,  Berber,  or  Moor; 
but  oftenest  of  all  with  an  unseen  and  deadlier  foe — 
the  dread  African  fever. 

26 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

AN  unaccustomed  silence  hung  over  the  labyrinth 
*  of  court-yards,  corridors,  gardens,  mosques,  and 
kiosks  which  compose  the  imperial  palace  in  Fez.  The 
chatter  of  the  harem  women  was  hushed;  the  white- 
robed  officials  of  the  household  slipped  through  the 
mosaic-paved  passages  like  melancholy  ghosts;  even 
the  slovenly  sentries  at  the  gates,  their  red  tunics  over 
their  heads  to  protect  them  from  the  sun,  seemed  to 
tread  more  softly,  as  though  some  great  one  lay  dying. 
Within  the  palace,  in  a  room  whose  furnishings  were  a 
strange  jumble  of  Oriental  taste  and  European  tawdri- 
ness,  a  group  of  men  stood  about  a  table.  Certain  of 
them  were  tall  and  sinewy  and  swarthy,  their  white 
burnooses,  which  enveloped  them  from  their  snowy 
turbans  to  their  yellow  slippers,  marking  them  un- 
mistakably as  Moors.  Of  the  others,  whose  clearer 
skins  showed  them  to  be  Europeans,  some  wore  the 
sky-blue  tunics  and  scarlet  breeches  of  the  chasseurs 
d'Afrique,  some  the  braided  jackets  and  baggy  trousers 
of  the  tirailleur  regiments,  some  the  simple  white 
linen  of  the  civil  administration,  while  across  the  chest 
of  one,  a  grizzled  man  with  the  epaulettes  of  a  general 
of  division,  slanted  a  broad  scarlet  ribbon.  At  the 
table  sat  an  old-young  man,  a  man  with  an  aquiline, 

21 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

high-bred  nose,  a  wonderfully  clear,  olive  skin,  and  a 
fringe  of  scraggy  beard  along  the  line  of  his  chin,  a  man 
with  a  weak  mouth  and  sensual  lips  and  heavy-lidded, 
melancholy  eyes.  The  man  with  the  scarlet  ribbon  un- 
rolled a  parchment  and,  bowing,  spread  it  upon  the 
table.  One  of  the  native  dignitaries,  with  a  gesture  of 
reverence  which  included  heart  and  lips  and  head, 
dipped  a  quill  pen  into  an  ink-well  and  tendered  it  to 
the  silent  figure  at  the  table.  ' '  Your  Majesty  will  have 
the  goodness  to  sign  here? "  said  the  soldier,  half-ques- 
tioningly,  half-commandingly,  as  he  indicated  the  place 
with  his  finger.  The  man  at  the  table  gravely  inclined 
his  head,  reached  for  the  pen,  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
then  slowly  began  to  trace,  from  right  to  left,  the  strange 
Arabic  signature.  "Inshallah!  It  is  done!"  he  said, 
and  throwing  down  the  pen  he  sunk  his  face  into  his 
hands.  "Vive  la  France!"  said  the  general  solemnly, 
and  "Vive  la  France!"  echoed  the  officers  around  him. 
Well  might  the  one  lament  and  the  others  rejoice,  for, 
with  the  final  flourish  of  the  Sultan's  pen,  Morocco  had 
ceased  to  exist  as  an  independent  nation  and  France 
had  added  an  empire  to  her  dominions. 

"The  world  is  a  peacock,"  says  a  Moorish  prov- 
erb, "and  Morocco  is  the  tail  of  it."  Now,  however, 
it  has  become  the  tail  of  the  Gallic  cock,  for  when,  on 
March  the  thirtieth,  191 2,  Sultan  Mulai-abd-el-Hafid 
signed  the  treaty  establishing  a  French  protectorate 
over  his  country,  Morocco  entered  upon  a  new  phase 
of  its  existence.  With  that  act  there  ended,  let  us  hope 
for  all  time,  a  situation  which  on  more  than  one  occa- 

28 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

i,ion  has  threatened  the  peace  of  the  world.  Not  since 
the  English  landed  in  Egypt  a  third  of  a  century  ago 
has  an  event  occurred  which  so  vitally  concerns  the 
future  welfare  of  Africa;  not  since  the  Treaty  of  Tilsit 
has  France  won  so  decisive  a  diplomatic  victory  or 
added  so  materially  to  her  territorial  possessions.  By 
the  signing  of  that  treaty  France  laid  the  final  stone 
in  the  mighty  colonial  structure  which  she  has  built 
up  in  Africa,  and  opened  to  Christianity,  civilisation, 
and  commerce  the  door  of  a  region  which  has  hitherto 
been  a  synonym  for  mystery,  cruelty,  intolerance,  and 
fanaticism. 

Though  scarcely  forty  hours  of  travel  by  train  and 
boat  separate  the  departure  platform  at  the  Quai 
d'Orsay  station  in  Paris  from  the  landing-beach  at 
Tangier,  though  its  coast  is  skirted  by  the  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  American  tourists  who  visit  the  Mediterranean 
each  year,  less  is  known  of  Morocco  than  of  many  re- 
gions in  central  Asia  or  inner  Africa.  Though  a  few 
daring  travellers  have  made  scattering  crow's-feet  upon 
its  map,  there  are  regions  as  large  as  all  our  New  Eng- 
land States  put  together  which  are  wholly  unexplored. 
It  is  almost  the  last  of  the  unknown  countries.  As  its 
women  draw  their  veils  to  hide  their  faces  from  the  men, 
so  the  Moors  have  attempted  to  draw  a  veil  of  mystery 
and  intolerance  over  the  face  of  their  country  to  hide  it 
from  the  stranger. :  What  strange  tribes,  what  ruins  of 
an  earlier  civilisation,  what  wealth  in  forests  or  minerals 
lie  behind  its  ranges  can  only  be  conjectured.    Its  maps 

are  still  without  the  names  of  rivers  and  mountains  and 

29 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

towns — though  the  rivers  and  mountains  and  towns  are 
there;  the  sole  means  of  travel  are  on  camels,  mules,  or 
donkeys  along  the  wild,  worn  paths,  it  being  the  only 
country  of  any  size  in  the  world  which  cannot  boast  so 
much  as  a  mile  of  railway;  its  ports  and  the  two  high- 
ways leading  from  the  coast  to  its  capitals,  Fez  and 
Morocco  City,  were,  until  the  coming  of  the  French, 
alone  open  to  the  traveller — and  none  too  safe  at  that; 
the  foreigner  who  has  the  hardihood  to  stray  from  the 
frequented  paths  is  taking  his  life  in  his  hands.  Few  of 
the  maps  of  Morocco  are,  so  far  as  accuracy  is  concerned, 
worth  the  paper  they  are  printed  on,  being  largely  based 
on  unscientific  material  eked  out  by  probabilities  and 
conjectures,  there  being  less  accurate  information,  in 
fact,  about  a  country  larger  than  France,  and  only  two 
days'  journey  from  Trafalgar  Square,  than  there  is  about 
Abyssinia  or  Borneo  or  Uganda.  Even  the  names  which 
we  have  given  to  the  country  and  its  inhabitants  are 
purely  European  terms  and  are  neither  used  nor  recog- 
nised by  the  people  themselves,  who  call  their  country 
El  Moghreb  el  Aska,  which  means  literally  "Sunset 
Land,"  the  term  Morocco  being  a  European  corruption 
of  the  name  of  one  of  its  capitals,  Marrakesh,  or,  as  it 
is  known  to  foreigners,  Morocco  City.  A  land  almost 
as  large  as  the  State  of  Texas,  with  snow-capped  moun- 
tain ranges,  navigable  rivers,  vast  forests,  a  fertile  soil, 
an  abundant  water  supply,  and  an  ideal  climate;  a 
land  of  walled  cities  and  white  villages,  of  domed 
mosques  and  slender  minarets,  of  veiled  women  and 
savage,  turbaned  men;  a  land  of  strange  peoples  and 

3° 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

still  stranger  customs;  a  land  of  mystery  and  fatalism, 
of  suspicion  and  fanaticism,  of  cruelty  and  corruption, 
of  confusion  and  contradiction — that  is  Morocco,  where, 
as  an  Arabic  writer  has  put  it,  a  wise  man  is  surprised 
at  nothing  that  he  sees  and  believes  nothing  that 
he  hears. 

This  empire  which  has  come  under  the  shadow  of 
the  tricolour  is,  above  all  else,  a  white  man's  coun- 
try. Unlike  India  and  Tripolitania  and  Rhodesia  and 
the  Sudan,  Morocco  is  a  country  which  is  admirably 
adapted  for  European  colonisation,  being  blessed  with 
every  natural  advantage  that  creation  has  to  offer.  Its 
only  objectionable  feature  is  its  people.  Lying  at  the 
western  gateway  of  the  Mediterranean,  where  the  nar- 
rowed sea  has  so  often  proved  a  temptation  to  invasion, 
its  Atlantic  ports  within  striking  distance  of  the  great 
lanes  of  commerce  between  Europe  and  South  America 
and  South  Africa,  Morocco  occupies  a  position  of  enor- 
mous strategic,  political,  and  commercial  importance. 
The  backbone  of  the  country  is  the  Great  Atlas,  which, 
taken  as  a  whole,  has  a  higher  mean  elevation  than  that 
of  any  other  range  of  equal  length  in  Europe,  Africa,  or 
western  Asia,  attaining  in  places  an  elevation  of  nearly 
fifteen  thousand  feet.  Snow-clad,  this  mighty  and  iso- 
lated wall  rises  so  abruptly  from  the  plain  that  it  needs 
but  little  stretch  of  the  imagination  to  understand  how 
the  ancients  believed  that  on  it  rested  the  heavens— 
whence,  indeed,  its  name.  Personally,  the  thing  that 
surprised  me  most  in  Morocco  was  the  total  absence 
of  desert.    Either  because  of  its  proximity  to  the  Sa- 

3i 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

hara,  or  because  of  its  camels,  or  the  two  combined,  I 
went  to  Morocco  expecting  that  I  should  find  vast 
strectches  of  sun-baked,  yellow  sand.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  found  nothing  of  the  kind.  Traversed  from  east 
to  west,  as  I  have  already  said,  by  the  strongly  defined 
range  of  the  Atlas,  the  greater  part  of  its  surface  is  really 
occupied  by  rolling  prairies,  diversified  by  low  hills, 
and  not  at  all  unlike  Ohio  and  Indiana.  Though  ad- 
mirably adapted  to  the  growing  of  cereals,  the  strict 
prohibition  against  the  exportation  of  grain  has  natu- 
rally resulted  in  discouraging  the  native  farmers,  so 
that  immense  tracts  of  fertile  land  remain  uncultivated. 
The  alluvial  soil,  which  is  remarkable  for  its  richness, 
frequently  reaches  a  depth  of  fifteen  feet  and  could  be 
brought  to  an  almost  incredible  degree  of  productive- 
ness by  the  application  of  modern  agricultural  methods. 
What  greater  praise  can  be  given  to  any  soil  than  to 
say  that  it  will  bear  three  crops  of  potatoes  in  a  single 
year  and  that  corn  is  commonly  sown  and  reaped  all 
within  the  space  of  forty  days? 

Unlike  its  neighbouring  countries,  Algeria,  Tunisia, 
and  Tripolitania,  Morocco  does  not  lack  for  navigable 
waterways,  for  it  possesses  several  large  rivers  which 
could  be  navigated  for  hundreds  of  miles  inland, 
though  at  present,  owing  to  the  apathy  of  the  inhabi- 
tants, and  the  unsettled  condition  of  the  regions  along 
their  banks,  they  are  used  for  neither  traffic  nor  irriga- 
tion. The  chief  of  these  is  the  Muluya,  which,  with  its 
tributary  the  Sharef,  provides  northeastern  Morocco 
with  a  valuable  commercial  waterway  for  a  distance  of 

32 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

more  than  four  hundred  miles.  The  most  important 
river  of  northwest  Morocco  is  the  Sebu,  which  empties 
into  the  Atlantic,  while  in  the  central  and  western  dis- 
tricts the  Kus,  the  Bu-Regreg,  the  Sus,  and  the  Assaka 
will,  under  the  new  regime,  prove  invaluable  as  means 
of  opening  up  the  country. 

A  very  large  number  of  people  seem  to  be  under  the 
impression  that  Morocco  is  unhealthy  and  suffers  from 
a  sweltering  heat.  Nothing  could  be  farther  from  the 
truth.  The  climate  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  extremely 
healthful,  malaria,  the  scourge  of  the  other  countries  of 
North  Africa,  being  unknown.  In  the  regions  lying 
between  the  central  range  of  the  Atlas  and  the  sea  the 
thermometer  seldom  rises  above  ninety  degrees  or  falls 
below  forty  degrees,  the  mountain  wall  serving  as  a 
protection  from  the  scorching  winds  of  the  Sahara. 
During  the  winter  months  the  rains  are  so  heavy  and 
frequent  along  the  Atlantic  coast  that  good  pasturage 
is  found  as  far  south  as  Cape  Juby,  while  in  the  interior 
the  rivers  frequently  become  so  swollen  that  travel  is 
both  difficult  and  dangerous.  The  unpleasantness  of 
the  rains  (and  you  don't  know  what  discomfort  is,  my 
friends,  until  you  have  journeyed  in  Morocco  during 
the  rainy  season)  is  more  than  compensated  for  by  the 
beauties  of  the  spring  landscape.  For  mile  after  mile 
I  have  ridden  across  meadows  literally  carpeted  with 
wild  flowers,  whose  varied  and  brilliant  colours,  com- 
bined with  the  peculiar  fashion  in  which  each  species 
confined  itself  to  its  own  area,  gave  the  countryside  the 
appearance  of  a  vast  floral  mosaic.    After  seeing  these 

33 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

gorgeous  natural  combinations  of  colour — dark  blue* 
yellow,  white,  and  scarlet,  iris,  marigolds,  lilies,  and 
poppies — I  no  longer  wondered  where  the  Moors  draw 
the  inspiration  for  that  chromatic  art  of  which  they 
left  such  marvellous  examples  in  the  cities  of  southern 
Spain. 

Though  the  country  has,  unfortunately,  become 
largely  deforested — for  what  Moor  would  ever  think 
of  planting  trees,  which  could  only  be  of  value  to  an- 
other generation? — a  wealth  of  timber  still  remains  in 
the  more  remote  valleys  of  the  Atlas,  the  pines  and 
oaks  often  attaining  enormous  size.  Though  Spanish 
concessionaires  are  profitably  working  gold  mines  in 
the  Riff  country,  and  the  great  German  firm  of  Mannes- 
mann  Brothers  has  acquired  extensive  iron-ore-bearing 
properties  in  the  Sus,  and  though  large  deposits  of  silver, 
copper,  lead,  and  antimony  have  been  discovered  at 
various  points  in  the  interior,  the  mineral  wealth  of 
Morocco  is  still  a  matter  for  speculation.  It  is  not 
likely  to  remain  so  long,  however,  for  history  has  shown 
that  it  is  the  miners  who  form  the  real  advance-guard 
of  civilisation. 

To  the  stranger  who  confines  his  investigations  to 
the  highways  which  connect  the  capitals  with  the  coast, 
Morocco  gives  the  impression  of  being  very  sparsely 
settled.  This  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  natives  take 
pains  to  avoid  the  highroads  as  they  would  the  plague, 
the  continual  passage  of  troops  and  of  travellers,  all  of 
whom  practise  the  time-honoured  custom  of  living  on 
the  country  and  never  paying  for  what  they  take,  hav- 

34 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

ing  had  the  natural  result  of  driving  the  inhabitants 
into  less  travelled  regions,  though  traders  and  others 
whose  business  takes  them  into  the  back  country  find 
that  it  is  far  more  densely  populated  than  most  foreign- 
ers suspect.  Heretofore  it  has  been  possible  for  almost 
any  foreigner,  by  the  judicious  use  of  bakshish,  to 
obtain  from  the  authorities  an  official  order  which  re- 
quired the  people  living  along  the  roads  to  supply  food 
both  for  him  and  his  escort  and  fodder  for  their  horses. 
Now,  this  was  a  very  serious  tax,  especially  among  a 
people  as  poverty-stricken  as  the  Moorish  peasantry, 
and  as  a  result  of  it  the  heedless  traveller  often  caused 
much  misery  and  suffering.  But  if  the  occasional  trav- 
eller proved  so  serious  a  burden,  imagine  what  it  meant 
to  these  poor  people  when  the  Sultan  himself  passed, 
for,  able  to  move  only  with  an  army,  without  any  com- 
missariat or  transport,  and  feeding  itself  as  it  went, 
he  devastated  the  land  of  food  and  fodder  as  though  he 
was  an  invader  instead  of  a  ruler,  sweeping  as  ruthlessly 
across  his  empire  as  the  Huns  did  across  southern 
Europe,  and  leaving  his  subjects  to  starve.  Is  it  any 
wonder,  then,  that  the  desperation  of  the  wretched, 
half-starved  peasantry  has  vented  itself  in  repeated 
revolutions?  The  coming  of  the  French  is  bound  to 
change  this  deplorable  and  demoralising  state  of  affairs, 
however,  for,  once  assured  of  protection  for  their  crops 
and  justice  for  themselves,  the  fugitive  country  folk 
will  quickly  flock  back  and  resume  the  cultivation  of 
their  abandoned  lands. 

One  of  the  facts  about  Morocco  that  will  probably 
35 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

surprise  most  people — I  know  that  it  surprised  me — is 
that  the  Berbers,  who  form  fully  two  thirds  of  the  popu- 
lation, are  a  purely  white  race,  as  white  indeed,  barring 
the  tan  which  results  from  life  under  an  African  sun, 
as  we  ourselves.  Though  the  generic  term  Moor  is 
applied  by  Europeans  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  Morocco, 
there  are  really  four  distinct  racial  divisions  of  the 
population:  the  Berbers,  who,  being  the  earliest-known 
possessors  of  the  land,  are  the  genuine  Moroccans,  and 
are,  when  of  unmixed  blood,  a  very  energetic  and  vig- 
orous people,  indeed;  the  Arabs,  who  are  the  descend- 
ants of  the  Mohammedan  conquerors  of  the  country 
and  possess  to  the  full  the  Arab  characteristics  of  arro- 
gance, indolence,  and  cruelty;  the  negroes,  brought 
into  the  country  as  slaves  from  Central  Africa  in  an 
influx  extending  over  centuries,  this  admixture  having 
resulted  in  deteriorating  both  the  Berbers  and  the  Arabs, 
the  infusion  of  black  blood  showing  itself  in  dark  skins, 
thickened  lips,  low  foreheads,  sensual  tastes,  and  a 
marked  stupidity;  and  lastly,  but  by  no  means  the 
least  important,  the  ubiquitous,  persecuted,  and  per- 
secuting Jews.  The  Berbers  dwell  for  the  most  part  in 
the  mountains,  while  the  Arabs,  on  the  contrary,  are 
to  be  found  only  on  the  plains,  it  being  the  weak,  sen- 
sual, and  intolerant  amalgam  produced  by  the  fusion 
oi  these  two  races,  and  tinctured  with  negro  blood,  which 
forms  the  population  of  the  Moorish  cities  and  to  which 
the  name  "Moor"  most  properly  belongs. 

Between  the  Moor  of  the  mountains  and  the  Moor 
of  the  towns  there  is  as  wide  a  gulf  as  there  is  between 

36 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

the  natives  of  Vermont  and  the  natives  of  Venezuela. 
The  town  Moor  is  sullen,  suspicious  of  all  strangers, 
vacillating;  the  pride,  but  none  of  the  energy,  of  his 
ancestors  remains.  In  his  youth  he  is  licentious  in  his 
acts;  in  his  old  age  he  is  licentious  in  his  thoughts. 
He  is  abominably  lazy.  He  never  runs  if  he  can  walk; 
he  never  walks  if  he  can  stand  still;  he  never  stands  if 
he  can  sit;  he  never  sits  if  he  can  lie  down.  The  only 
thing  he  puts  any  energy  into  is  his  talking;  he  believes 
that  nothing  can  be  done  really  well  without  a  hullabaloo. 
The  men  of  the  mountains  are  cast  in  a  wholly  different 
mould,  however,  from  that  of  the  men  of  the  towns. 
Fierce  enemies  and  stanch  friends,  they  like  fighting 
for  fighting's  sake.  They  are  intelligent  and  industrious ; 
though  fonder  of  the  sword  and  the  pistol  than  of  the 
plough  and  the  hoe,  their  fertile  mountain  valleys  are 
nevertheless  fairly  well  cultivated.  They  are  a  hardy, 
warlike,  and  indomitable  race  and  have  never  yet  been 
conquered.  It  is  well  to  remember  in  any  discussion 
of  these  people  that,  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  their 
history,  they  have  never  before  had  the  flag  of  another 
nation  flying  over  them.  All  the  successive  invaders 
of  North  Africa  have  been  confronted  with  the  problem 
of  subduing  them,  but  always  they  have  failed  and  have 
gone  back.  Not  only  that,  but  once  the  Moors  went 
invading  on  their  own  account,  crossing  the  Strait  of 
Gibraltar,  conquering  all  southern  Spain,  holding  it 
for  five  hundred  years,  and  leaving  behind  them  the 
architectural  glories  of  Seville,  of  Cordova,  and  of 
Granada  to  tell  the  story.    Unless  I  am  very  much  mis- 

37 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

taken,  therefore,  it  will  cost  France  many  lives  and 
much  money  to  make  them  amenable  to  her  rule. 

The  decadence  of  the  Moors  is  primarily  due  to  two 
things:  immorality  and  racial  jealousies.  They  are 
probably  the  most  licentious  race,  in  both  thought  and 
act,  in  the  world.  Compared  to  them  the  inhabitants 
of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  were  positively  prudish.  This 
extreme  moral  degeneracy  is  in  itself  enough  to  ruin 
the  sturdiest  people,  but,  as  though  it  was  not  sufficient, 
the  two  principal  races,  Arab  and  Berber,  hate  each 
other  as  the  Armenian  hates  the  Turk,  this  racial  an- 
tagonism in  itself  making  impossible  the  upbuilding  of 
a  strong  and  united  nation.  In  fact,  the  only  thing 
they  have  in  common  is  their  religion,  which  is  the  air 
they  breathe,  and  which,  though  incapable  of  produc- 
ing internal  harmony,  unites  them  in  hostility  to  the 
unbeliever. 

There  is  less  public  spirit  in  Morocco  than  in  any 
place  I  know.  No  Moor  takes  the  slightest  interest  in 
anything  outside  his  personal  affairs,  and  no  one  ever 
plans  for  the  future — other  than  to  hope  that  he  will 
get  a  comfortable  divan  and  his  share  of  houris  in  Para- 
dise. The  last  thing  that  would  occur  to  a  Moor  would 
be  to  spend  money  on  anything  which  will  not  bring 
him  in  an  immediate  profit,  so  that,  as  a  consequence, 
trees  are  never  planted,  mines  never  worked,  roads 
never  made,  bridges  never  built.  He  does  not  want 
civilisation.  He  does  not  believe  in  modern  inventions 
or  improvements.  What  was  good  enough  for  his 
father  is  good  enough  for  him.   Why  lug  in  railways  and 

3S 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

telegraphs,  and  similar  contrivances  of  the  devil,  then, 
when  things  are  good  enough  as  they  are? 

There  is  no  cause  for  the  other  European  nations 
to  envy  France  the  obligations  she  assumed  when  she 
declared  a  protectorate  over  Morocco.  She  has  a  long 
and  hilly  road  to  travel  before  she  can  convert  her  latest 
acquisition  into  a  national  asset.  Before  Morocco  can 
be  thrown  open  to  French  settlers  its  savage  and  hostile 
population  will  have  to  be  as  effectually  subdued  as  were 
the  Indians  of  our  own  West.  The  tribes  of  southern 
Morocco  are  especially  hostile  to  the  French  occupa- 
tion, and  many  military  experts  believe  that  the  pro- 
tectorate will  never  be  enforced  in  those  regions  without 
a  long  campaign  and  much  shedding  of  blood,  while  one 
eminent  French  general  has  openly  asserted  that  it  will 
take  at  least  a  dozen  years  fully  to  subdue  the  country. 

Personally,  I  am  a  firm  believer  in  the  future  of 
Morocco  and  the  Moors  under  the  guidance  and  pro- 
tection of  France.  I  have  seen  too  much  of  what 
France  has  accomplished  in  far  less  favoured  regions, 
and  under  far  more  discouraging  conditions,  to  think 
otherwise.  Nothing  illustrates  the  latent  possibilities 
of  the  Moorish  character  better  than  an  experiment 
which  was  made  some  years  ago.  At  the  request  of  the 
Sultan,  the  British  minister  to  Morocco  asked  his 
government  for  permission  to  send  a  body  of  Moors  to 
Gibraltar  for  the  purpose  of  being  instructed  in  British 
drill  and  discipline.  The  War  Office  acceding  to  the 
request,  two  hundred  Moors,  selected  at  random  from 
various  tribes  throughout  the  empire,  were  sent  to 

39 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Gibraltar  and  remained  there  for  three  years,  the  men 
being  occasionally  changed  as  they  acquired  a  knowl- 
edge of  drill.  They  had  good  clothing  given  them,  slept 
in  tents,  and  were  allowed  by  the  Sultan  a  shilling  a  day, 
receiving  precisely  the  same  treatment  as  British  sol- 
diers. During  the  three  years  they  were  stationed  on 
the  Rock,  there  were  only  two  cases  in  the  police  court 
against  them  for  dissolute  conduct  or  disorder.  The  sol- 
diers of  what  civilised  nation  could  have  made  such  a 
record?  Colonel  Cameron,  under  whose  superintend- 
ence they  were  placed,  reported  that  they  learned  the 
drill  as  quickly  and  as  well  as  any  Englishmen,  and  that 
they  were  sober,  steady,  and  attentive  to  their  duties. 
(The  Moors,  it  should  be  remarked,  are  noted  for  their 
abstemiousness,  the  precepts  of  the  Koran  which  for- 
bid the  use  of  spirits  and  tobacco  being  rigidly  observed.) 
This  tends  to  show  that  Moors,  living  under  a  just  and 
humane  government,  and  having,  as  these  men  had, 
proper  provision  made  for  their  livelihood,  are  not  a 
lawless  or  even  a  disorderly  people,  and  that  they  are 
capable  of  being  transformed,  under  such  a  form  of 
government  as  France  has  established  in  Algeria  and 
Tunisia,  into  the  splendid  warriors  which  their  ances- 
tors were  in  Spain.  It  was,  as  I  think  I  have  remarked 
in  the  preceding  chapter,  the  knowledge  that  France,  in 
acquiring  Morocco,  would  obtain  the  material  for  a 
formidable  addition  to  her  military  forces  which  was, 
it  is  generally  believed,  one  of  the  motives  that  inspired 
Germany's  persistent  opposition  to  a  French  protec- 
torate. 

40 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

Though  the  reins  of  Moorish  power  are  already 
firmly  in  the  hands  of  the  French  Resident- General  at 
Fez,  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  the  French  ex- 
pect, for  the  present  at  least,  to  depose  the  Sultan,  it 
being  to  their  interests,  for  obvious  reasons,  to  maintain 
the  pleasant  fiction  that  Morocco  is  still  an  independent 
empire  to  which  they  have  disinterestedly  lent  their 
protection,  In  August,  191 2,  Sultan  Mulai-abd-el- 
Hafid,  appreciating  the  emptiness  of  his  title  under  the 
French  regime,  abdicated  in  favour  of  his  brother, 
Mulai  Youssef,  who  is  known  to  be  friendly  to  France. 
The  new  Sultan,  who  is  the  seventeenth  of  the  dynasty 
of  the  Alides  and  the  thirty-seventh  lineal  descendant 
of  Ali,  uncle  and  son-in-law  of  the  Prophet,  is  known  to 
his  subjects  as  Emir-el-Mumenin,  or  Prince  of  True 
Believers,  and  as  such  he  exercises  a  spiritual  influence 
over  his  subjects  which  the  French  are  far  too  shrewd  to 
disregard.  The  position  of  the  Sultan  of  Morocco  has, 
indeed,  become  strikingly  similar  to  that  of  his  fellow- 
ruler  in  the  other  corner  of  Africa,  the  Khedive  of  Egypt, 
for,  like  him,  he  must  needs  content  himself  henceforth 
with  the  shadow  of  power.  Even  if  the  imperial  form 
of  government  is  permanently  maintained  (and  this  I 
very  much  doubt,  for  it  is  characteristic  of  the  Latin 
races — as  Taine  puts  it — that  they  always  want  to  oc- 
cupy a  "sharply  defined  and  terminologically  defensi- 
ble position"),  its  real  ruler  will  be  the  Resident-Gen- 
eral of  France,  whose  policies  will  be  carried  out  by 
French  advisers  in  every  department  of  the  government 
and  whose  orders  will  be  backed  up  by  French  bayonets. 

41 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

So  long  as  Mulai  Youssef  is  content  meekly  to  play  the 
part  of  a  puppet,  with  French  officials  pulling  the  strings, 
he  will  be  permitted  to  enjoy  all  the  honours  and  com- 
forts of  royalty,  but  let  him  once  give  ear  to  sedition, 
let  him  make  the  slightest  attempt  to  undermine  the 
authority  of  the  French  regime,  and  he  will  find  himself 
occupying  a  sentry-guarded  villa  in  Algiers  near  the 
residences  of  the  ex-Queen  of  Madagascar  and  the  ex- 
King  of  Annam,  those  other  Oriental  rulers  who  thought 
to  match  themselves  against  the  power  of  France. 

The  Sherifian  umbrella,  which  is  the  Moorish 
equivalent  of  a  crown,  is  hereditary  in  the  family  of  the 
Filali  Sherifs  of  Tafilelt.  Each  Sultan  is  supposed, 
prior  to  his  death,  to  indicate  the  member  of  the  im- 
perial family  who,  according  to  his  conscientious  belief, 
will  best  replace  him.  This  succession  is,  however, 
elective,  and  all  members  of  the  Sherifian  family  are 
eligible.  It  has  generally  happened  that  the  late  Sul- 
tan's nominee  has  been  elected  by  public  acclamation  at 
noonday  prayers  the  Friday  after  the  Sultan's  death, 
as  the  nominee  generally  has  obtained  possession  of  the 
imperial  treasure  and  is  supported  by  the  body-guard, 
from  whose  ranks  most  of  the  court  officials  are  ap- 
pointed. I  might  add  that  all  of  the  Moorish  Sultans 
in  recent  years  have  been  so  extremely  bad  that  no  suc- 
cessor whom  they  could  appoint,  or  who  could  appoint 
himself,  could  by  any  possibility  be  worse.  The  pres- 
ent Sultan  knows  scarcely  half  a  dozen  places  in  his 
whole  empire,  and  has  spent  most  of  his  life  in  two  of 
them — Marrakesh  and  Fez — having  held,  up  to  the 

42 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

time  of  his  accession  to  the  throne,  the  important  post 
of  Khalif  of  the  latter  city.  The  Moors  never  pray  for 
their  sovereign  to  journey  among  them,  for,  so  disturbed 
has  been  the  condition  of  the  country  for  many  years 
past,  and  so  numerous  have  been  the  pretenders  to  the 
Sherifian  throne,  that  recent  Sultans  have  rarely  ven- 
tured outside  the  walls  of  their  capitals  with  less  than 
thirty  thousand  followers  behind  them,  so  that  when 
they  had  occasion  to  pass  through  the  territory  of  a 
hostile  tribe,  as  not  infrequently  happened,  they  fought 
their  way  through,  leaving  ruin  and  desolation  behind 
them.  Though  both  Mulai  Youssef  and  his  prede- 
cessors have  always  resided  at  one  or  the  other  of  the 
two  official  capitals,  the  coast  city  of  Tangier  has  here- 
tofore been  the  real  capital  of  Morocco.  Here  lived  the 
diplomatic  and  consular  representatives  of  the  foreign 
powers  and,  with  a  cynical  disregard  for  the  Moorish 
Government  and  people,  ran  things  between  them. 
Though  considerations  of  safety  doubtless  entered  into 
the  matter,  the  chief  reason  for  making  Tangier  the  dip- 
lomatic capital  was  the  extreme  inconvenience  to  the 
foreign  legations  of  being  obliged  to  follow  the  court  in 
its  periodical  migrations  from  one  capital  to  the  other. 
Therefore  the  diplomatic  folk  remained  comfortably  in 
Tangier — which,  incidentally,  can  readily  be  overawed 
by  a  war-ship's  guns — and  the  Sultan  appointed  minis- 
ters to  treat  with  them  there  and  thus  carry  on  the 
foreign  business  of  the  state.  When  questions  of  great 
importance  had  to  be  negotiated  special  missions  were 
sent  to  the  capital  at  which  the  Sultan  happened  to  be 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

residing,  the  departure  of  these  ambassadorial  caravans, 
with  their  secretaries,  attaches,  kavasses,  servants,  and 
body-guards,  not  to  mention  the  immense  train  of  pack- 
mules  and  baggage  camels,  providing  a  spectacle  quite 
as  picturesque  and  entertaining  as  any  circus  procession. 
That  feature  of  Moorish  lif e  disappeared  with  the  com- 
ing of  the  French,  however,  for  the  foreign  ministers 
will  doubtless  shortly  be  withdrawn;  and  hereafter, 
when  any  negotiations  are  to  be  conducted  anent  Mo- 
rocco, instead  of  a  diplomatic  mission  having  to  make 
a  two-hundred-mile  journey  on  horses  or  camels,  the 
ambassador  at  Paris  of  the  power  in  question  will 
step  into  his  motor-car  and  whirl  over  to  the  Ministry 
of  the  Colonies  in  the  Rue  Oudinot. 

I  know  of  nothing  which  gives  so  graphic  an  idea 
of  the  amazing  conditions  which  have  heretofore  pre- 
vailed in  Morocco,  and  to  which  the  French  are,  thank 
Heaven,  putting  an  end,  as  the  speech  which  a  former 
British  minister,  Sir  John  Drummond  Hay,  made  some 
years  ago  to  the  reigning  Sultan,  and  which  was,  prob- 
ably, the  most  extraordinary  address  ever  made  by  a 
diplomatic  representative  to  a  foreign  ruler. 

"Your  Majesty  has  been  so  gracious  as  to  ask  me, " 
said  Sir  John,  looking  the  despot  squarely  in  the  eye, 
"to  express  frankly  my  opinion  of  affairs  in  Morocco. 
The  administration  of  the  government  in  Morocco  is  the 
worst  in  the  world.  The  government  is  like  a  commu- 
nity of  fishes;  the  giant  fish  feed  upon  those  that  are 
small,  the  smaller  upon  the  least,  and  these  again  feed 
upon  the  worms.    In  like  manner  the  vizier  and  other 

44 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

dignitaries  of  the  court,  who  receive  no  salaries,  depend 
for  their  livelihood  upon  peculation,  trickery,  corrup- 
tion, and  the  money  they  extract  from  the  governors 
of  provinces.  The  governors  are  likewise  enriched 
through  peculation  from  tithes  and  taxes,  and  extor- 
tion from  sheikhs,  wealthy  farmers,  and  traders.  A 
Moor  who  becomes  rich  is  treated  as  a  criminal. 
Neither  life  nor  property  is  secure.  Sheikhs  and 
other  subordinate  officials  subsist  on  what  they  can 
extort  from  the  farmers  and  the  peasantry.  Then 
again,  even  the  jailers  are  not  paid;  they  gain  their 
livelihood  by  taking  money  from  prisoners,  who,  when 
they  are  paupers,  are  taught  to  make  baskets,  which 
are  sold  by  the  jailers  for  their  own  benefit.  How  can 
a  country,  how  can  a  people,  prosper  under  such  a 
government?  The  tribes  are  in  a  constant  state  of 
rebellion  against  their  governors.  When  the  Sultan 
resides  in  his  northern  capital  of  Fez,  the  southern 
tribes  rebel,  and  when  he  marches  south  to  the  city  of 
Morocco,  eating  up  the  rebels  and  confiscating  their 
property,  the  northern  tribes  rebel.  The  armies  of  the 
Sultan,  like  locusts,  are  constantly  on  the  move,  ravag- 
ing the  country  to  quell  the  revolts.  Agriculture  is  de- 
stroyed, the  farmers  and  peasantry  only  grow  sufficient 
grain  for  their  own  requirements,  and  rich  lands  are 
allowed  to  lie  fallow  because  the  farmers  know  the  crops 
would  be  plundered  by  the  governors  and  sheikhs. 
Thus  it  happens  with  cattle  and  horses.  Breeding  is 
checked,  since  the  man  who  may  become  rich  through 
his  industry  is  treated  as  a  criminal  and  all  his  posses- 

45 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

sions  are  taken  from  him,  as  in  the  fable  the  goose  is 
killed  to  get  the  golden  eggs. " 

France,  in  pursuing  her  Moroccan  adventure,  will 
do  well  to  bear  in  mind  two  danger-spots :  the  Riff  and 
the  Sus.  Unless  she  treads  carefully  in  the  first  she  is 
likely  to  become  embroiled  in  a  quarrel  with  Spain; 
with  the  natives  of  the  Sus  she  will  probably  have 
trouble  whether  she  treads  lightly  or  not.  Sooner  or 
later  France  is  bound  to  come  into  collision  with  Spain, 
for,  with  Morocco  avowedly  a  French  protectorate,  I 
fail  to  see  how  she  can  tolerate  Spanish  soldiers  on  its 
soil.  Spain,  basing  her  pretensions  on  her  expulsion 
of  the  Moors  from  Granada  in  the  reign  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  has  always  considered  herself  one  of  the 
heirs  of  Morocco.  In  fact,  a  secret  treaty  was  signed 
between  France  and  Spain  in  1905  which  distinctly 
defined  the  respective  spheres  of  influence  of  the  two 
powers  in  that  country.  By  the  terms  of  this  treaty 
Spain  was  acknowledged  to  have  predominating  in- 
terests in  those  regions  adjacent  to  the  ports  of  Ceuta, 
Melilla,  and  El  Araish,  as  well  as  in  the  Riff,  a  little- 
known  and  exceedingly  mountainous  district,  believed 
to  be  rich  in  minerals,  which  lies  in  the  northwestern 
corner  of  the  empire,  two  days'  journey  eastward  from 
Tetuan.  Spain  distinctly  engaged  not  to  take  any 
action  in  the  zone  thus  allotted  to  her  other  than  to 
proceed  with  its  commercial  exploitation,  but  it  was 
stipulated  that,  should  the  weakness  of  the  Sherifian 
government  make  the  maintenance  of  the  status  quo 
impossible,  she  should  have  a  free  hand  in  her  sphere. 

46 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

France,  meanwhile,  steadily  continued  her  "pacific 
penetration"  of  Morocco,  pushing  her  Algerian  railways 
closer  and  closer  to  Morocco's  eastern  frontier,  mobilis- 
ing troops  at  strategic  points,  and  overrunning  the  Sul- 
tan's dominions  with  "scientific"  expeditions  and  secret 
agents.  Spain  soon  began  to  regard  with  envy  and 
impatience  the  subtle  game  which  the  French  were  so 
successfully  playing,  but  it  was  not  until  1910  that  she 
found  the  opportunity  and  the  excuse  for  which  she  had 
been  eagerly  waiting.  Some  Spanish  labourers,  who 
were  working  on  a  railway  which  was  being  laid  from 
Melilla  to  some  mines  a  few  miles  distant,  were  at- 
tacked by  Riffian  tribesmen  and  a  number  of  the  Span- 
iards were  killed.  Spain  jumped  at  the  opportunity 
which  this  incident  afforded  as  a  hungry  trout  jumps 
at  a  fly,  and  a  few  days  later  a  Spanish  army  was  being 
disembarked  on  Moroccan  soil.  A  sharp  campaign  en- 
sued which  ended  in  the  temporary  subjugation  of  the 
Riffians  and  the  occupation  by  Spain  of  a  considerable 
tract  of  territory  extending  from  Ceuta  eastward  to 
Cabo  del  Agua  and  southward  as  far  as  Seluan,  thus 
comprising  practically  all  of  Morocco's  Mediterranean 
seaboard.  A  Moorish  envoy  was  sent  to  Madrid  and, 
"after  protracted  negotiations,  a  convention  was  signed 
which  permitted  Spain  to  establish  a  force  of  Moorish 
gendarmerie,  under  Spanish  officers,  at  Melilla,  Aljuce- 
mas,  and  Ceuta,  for  the  maintenance  of  order  in  the 
districts  near  those  places.  Until  this  force  has  shown 
itself  capable  of  maintaining  order,  the  Spaniards  assert 
that  they  will  remain  in  occupation  of  the  territory  they 

47 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

now  hold.  Emboldened  by  her  success  in  this  adven- 
ture, and  greedy  for  further  expansion,  Spain,  in  June, 
191 1,  sent  a  vessel  to  El  Araish  (Laraiche)  on  the  Atlan- 
tic coast,  and  a  column  was  despatched  from  there  to 
Alcazar,  which  lies  some  twenty  miles  inland.  The 
region  was  apparently  perfectly  calm  at  the  time,  and 
the  reasons  given  by  Spain  for  her  action — that  mysteri- 
ous horsemen  had  been  seen  upon  the  walls  of  Alcazar — 
appeared,  in  France  at  least,  to  be  mere  pretensions  and 
raised  a  storm  of  indignation.  As  things  now  stand, 
France  has  proclaimed  a  definite  protectorate  over  the 
whole  of  Morocco,  an  arrangement  to  which  the  Sultan 
has  consented.  Despite  that  proclamation,  however, 
Spain  continues  to  occupy  a  rich  and  extensive  district 
of  the  country  with  an  army  of  forty  thousand  men. 
By  what  means  France  will  attempt  to  oust  her— for 
oust  her  she  certainly  will — is  an  interesting  subject 
for  speculation  and  one  which  is  giving  both  French 
and  Spanish  diplomats  many  sleepless  nights. 

A  word,  in  passing,  upon  the  region  known  as  the 
Riff.  It  is  more  discussed  and  less  known  than  any 
other  quarter  of  Morocco.  Nothing  has  been  written 
upon  it  except  from  hearsay  and  no  European  has  pene- 
trated across  its  length  and  breadth,  and  this  although 
it  is  but  two  days'  ride  on  horseback  from  Tetuan. 
Situated  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Great  Atlas  range,  and 
accessible  only  through  narrow  passes  and  over  rough 
mountain  trails,  this  region  has,  from  time  beyond  reck- 
oning, been  the  home  and  the  refuge  of  that  savage  and 

mysterious  clan  known  as  the  Riffs.    Their  feudal  chief- 

48 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

tains  live  in  great  castles  built  of  stone  and  lead  much 
the  same  lives  as  did  the  European  nobles  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  passes  giving  access  to  the  Riff  are  com- 
manded by  hill-top  forts  impregnable  to  anything  short 
of  modern  artillery — and  to  get  within  range  of  them 
the  artillery  would  need  to  have  wings.  They  are  a 
people  rich  in  possibilities,  are  these  Riffs,  and  one  whom 
it  is  wiser  to  conciliate  than  to  fight,  as  France  will 
doubtless  sooner  or  later  learn.  Brigands  by  nature, 
farmers  in  a  small  way  by  occupation,  disciples  of  the 
vendetta,  scorners  of  the  law,  suspicious  of  strangers, 
their  only  courts  the  gun  and  dagger,  the  Riffs  have 
more  in  common  with  the  mountaineers  of  the  Blue 
Ridge  than  any  people  that  I  know.  They  have  noth- 
ing in  common  with  the  other  inhabitants  of  Morocco 
except  their  dress,  wearing  the  universal  brown  hooded 
jettab  and  over  it  the  toga-like  white  woollen  haik,  a 
skull-cap  of  red  or  brown,  a  belt  with  pouches  of  gaily 
coloured  leather,  and  in  it,  always,  a  muzzle-loading 
pistol  and  the  vicious  curved  knife,  while  over  the  shoul- 
der slants  the  ten-foot-long  Riff  rifle,  coral-studded, 
brass-bound,  ivory-butted,  and  almost  as  dangerous 
to  the  man  behind  it  as  to  the  one  in  front.  The  Riffs 
are  fair-skinned,  blue-eyed,  and  quite  frequently  red- 
haired,  and  claim  to  be  descended  from  the  Romans, 
which  is  no  unreasonable  assumption  on  their  part,  as 
the  Romans  were  adventuring  in  Morocco — they  called 
it  Mauritania — long  before  Caesar's  day. 

The  other  danger-point  in  Morocco  is  the  Sus,  a 
"forbidden"  and  unknown  country  through  which  only 

49 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

a  handful  of  European  travellers  have  ever  passed,  all 
in  disguise  and  all  in  peril  of  their  lives.  The  Sus 
is  the  rich  and  fertile  valley  lying  between  the  Great 
Atlas  and  the  Anti  Atlas,  and  touching  the  Atlantic 
coast  at  Agadir.  It  is  said  to  be  thickly  populated; 
it  is  believed  to  contain  rich  mines;  it  is  fanatical  to  the 
last  degree.  Its  Berber  inhabitants,  who  are  separated 
from  the  Arabs  of  the  surrounding  regions  by  a  totally 
distinct  language  known  as  the  Tamazight,  or  Tongue  of 
the  Free,  though  acknowledging  the  religious  suprem- 
acy of  the  reigning  Sultan,  have  always  maintained  a 
semi-independence,  having  never  submitted  to  Moorish 
rule  nor  paid  tax  nor  tribute  to  the  government  of 
Morocco.  Twice  within  the  last  three  or  four  decades 
Moorish  Sultans  have  invaded  and  attempted  to  con- 
quer the  Sus,  but  each  time  they  have  been  driven  back 
across  the  Atlas.  The  origin  of  the  people  of  this  re- 
gion is  lost  in  the  mists  of  antiquity.  According  to 
the  Koran  its  original  inhabitants  were  natives  of  Syria, 
where  they  proved  themselves  such  undesirable  citizens 
that  King  David  ordered  them  to  be  tied  up  in  sacks 
and  carried  out  of  the  country  on  camels,  since  he 
wished  to  see  their  faces  no  more.  Arrived  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Atlas  Mountains,  the  leader  of  the  cara- 
van called  out  in  the  Berber  tongur  "Sus!"  which 
means  "Let  down!  Empty  out!"  So  the  exiled  un- 
desirables were  dumped  unceremoniously  out  of  their 
sacks,  and  the  country  in  which  they  found  themselves, 
and  where  they  settled,  is  called  the  Sus  to  this  day. 
The  people  of  the  Sus  have  never  liked  the  French,  and 

50 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

there  is  little  doubt  that  they  will  oppose  any  attempt  to 
treat  them  as  a  province  of  Morocco,  and  consequently 
subject  to  French  control.  It  is  obvious  that  France 
will  sooner  or  later  be  obliged  to  send  an  expedition  into 
the  Sus  for  the  purpose  of  asserting  her  power  as  well 
as  to  counteract  the  German  influence'which  is  rapidly 
gaining  ground  there,  for  the  Sus,  remember,  is  the 
region  where  Germany's  interests  in  Morocco  are  cen- 
tred and  provided  the  excuse  for  sending  her  gun-boat 
to  Agadir  and  almost  provoking  a  European  war 
thereby.  Germany  still  retains  her  commercial  in- 
terests in  the  Sus  Valley,  and  France  will  be  obliged  to 
step  gingerly  indeed  if  she  wishes  to  avoid  stirring  up 
still  another  affaire  Marocaine. 

If  France  accomplishes  nothing  more  in  Morocco 
than  the  extermination  of  the  slave  trade  she  will  have 
performed  a  genuine  service  to  humanity.  Though 
slavery  has  been  abolished  in  every  other  quarter  of 
Africa,  no  attempt  has  ever  been  made  by  the  European 
powers  to  put  a  check  upon  the  practice  in  Morocco. 
Something  over  three  thousand  slaves,  it  is  estimated, 
are  imported  into  Morocco  every  year,  most  of  them 
being  brought  by  the  terrible  desert  routes  from  Equa- 
toria  and  the  Sudan,  the  trails  of  the  slave  caravans 
being  marked  by  the  bleaching  bones  of  the  thousands 
who  have  died  on  the  way  from  heat,  hunger,  or  ex- 
haustion. Many  smug-faced  people  will  assure  you 
that  slavery  has  been  wiped  out  in  Africa — praise  be  to 
the  Lord! — but  I  can  take  you  into  half  a  dozen  Mo- 
roccan cities  and  show  you  slaves  being  auctioned  to  the 

5i 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

highest  bidder  as  openly  as  they  were  in  our  own  South 
fifty  years  ago.  There  is  a  large  and  profitable  demand 
for  slaves,  particularly  girls  and  boys,  in  all  of  the 
Moroccan  cities,  a  young  negress  having  a  market  value 
of  anywhere  from  eighty  dollars  to  one  hundred  and 
twenty  dollars.  Although,  as  I  have  already  remarked, 
the  bulk  of  the  slaves  are  driven  across  the  Sahara  by 
the  time-honoured  method,  exceptionally  pretty  girls 
are  often  brought  from  West  African  ports  in  French 
vessels  as  passengers  and  disposed  of  to  wealthy  Moors 
by  private  sale.  So  great  is  the  demand  for  young  and 
attractive  women  that  girls  are  occasionally  stolen 
from  Moorish  villages,  the  slave-dealer  laying  a  trail  of 
sweets,  of  which  the  native  women  are  inordinately 
fond,  from  the  outskirts  of  the  villages  up  to  neigh- 
bouring clumps  of  trees,  behind  which  he  conceals  him- 
self, pouncing  out  upon  his  unsuspecting  victims  as  they 
approach.  If  France  succeeds  in  stamping  out  the 
slave  trade  in  Morocco  as  effectually  as  she  has  in  her 
other  African  possessions,  she  will  prove  herself,  as  our 
missionary  friends  would  put  it,  the  flail  of  the  Lord. 

Of  all  France's  ambitious  projects  for  the  exploita- 
tion of  North  Africa  in  general,  and  the  opening  up  of 
Morocco  in  particular,  the  one  which  most  appeals  to 
the  imagination,  and  which,  when  executed,  is  likely 
to  be  of  the  greatest  benefit  to  the  world,  is  her  astound- 
ing scheme  for  bringing  South  America  a  week  nearer 
to  Europe  by  means  of  a  railway  from  Tangier,  in 
Morocco,  to  Dakar,  in  Senegal.  The  route,  as  at  pres- 
ent planned,  would  run  from  Tangier,  via  Fez,  to  Tuat. 

52 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

From  Tuat  the  Sahara  would  be  crossed  and  the  Niger 
gained  at  Timbuktu.  Though  about  three  hundred 
miles  of  this  section  would  lie  through  the  most  hope- 
less desert  country,  it  presents  no  great  obstacle  to 
engineers,  the  Sudanese  line  from  Wady  Haifa  to 
Khartoum  proving  how  easily  the  difficulties  of  desert 
construction  and  lack  of  water  can  be  overcome.  The 
third  section  would  be  from  Timbuktu  to  Dakar,  where 
the  French  within  the  last  few  years  have  created  a 
magnificent  naval  port  and  commercial  harbour.  Al- 
ready Timbuktu  and  Dakar  are  in  regular  communica- 
tion by  a  mixed  steamer  and  railway  service,  the  jour- 
ney taking,  when  the  Senegal  is  in  flood,  but  five  days. 
As  such  a  system  would  have,  of  necessity,  to  be  inde- 
pendent of  the  Niger  and  Senegal  river  services,  which 
are  not  always  reliable,  a  line  is  now  under  construction 
which  will  bring  Timbuktu  into  direct  rail  communi- 
cation with  Dakar,  thus  eliminating  the  difficulties  and 
uncertainties  of  river  navigation.  From  Dakar  to  Per- 
nambuco,  in  Brazil,  is  less  than  fifteen  hundred  miles, 
which  could  be  covered  by  a  fast  steamer  in  three  days. 
There  are  already  regular  sailings  between  these  ports, 
but  with  the  completion  of  this  trans-African  system 
(and,  believe  me,  it  is  far  from  being  as  chimerical  as 
it  sounds,  for  the  French  do  not  let  the  grass  grow  under 
their  feet  when  they  once  get  a  clear  right  of  way  for 
railway-building)  ocean  greyhounds  will  be  placed  in 
service  between  Dakar  and  the  South  American  ports, 
it  being  estimated  that  the  traveller  who  purchases 
his  ticket  via  Madrid,  Gibraltar,  and  then  over  the 

53 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Moroccan-Saharan  system,  can  journey  from  Paris  to 
Rio  de  Janeiro  in  twelve  days.  It  is  obvious  that]  in 
some  such  scheme  as  this  lies  the  future  of  the  French 
Sahara,  as  well  as  the  enormously  increased  prosperity 
of  the  Moroccan  hinterland  and  of  the  Niger-Senegal 
possessions,  for  it  was  just  such  a  trans-continental 
line,  remember,  which  brought  population  and  pros- 
perity to  the  desert  regions  of  our  own  West. 

It  is  no  light  task  to  which  France  has  pledged 
herself  in  agreeing  to  effect  the  regeneration  of  an  em- 
pire so  decrepit  and  decadent  as  Morocco,  but  that  she 
will  accomplish  it  is  as  certain  as  that  the  leaves  come 
with  the  spring.  The  changes  which  the  coming  of  the 
French  will  effect  in  Morocco  stretch  the  imagination 
almost  to  the  breaking-point.  Already  the  wireless 
crackles  and  splutters  from  a  mast  erected  over  the 
French  Residency  in  Fez.  With  the  proclamation  of 
the  protectorate  the  waiting  railway-builders  jumped 
their  rail-heads  across  the  Moroccan  border  as  home- 
steaders, hearing  the  signal  gun,  jump  their  horses  over 
the  border  of  newly  opened  lands.  Two  or  three  years 
more  and  the  traveller  will  be  able  to  purchase  through 
tickets  to  Fez  and  Marrakesh  as  easily  as  he  can  now  to 
San  Francisco  or  Milan.  At  Tangier,  Rabat,  El  Araish, 
Mogador,  and  Agadir  harbours  will  be  dredged,  break- 
waters built,  and  wharves  constructed,  while  the  filthy, 
foul-smelling  cities  will  be  made  as  clean  and  sanitary 
as  Tunis  and  Algiers.  Under  French  control  Tangier, 
with  its  ideal  climate,  its  picturesque  features,  and  its 
splendid  situation,  will  rival  Cairo  and  the  Riviera  as 

54 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCK'S  TAIL 

a  fashionable  winter  resort.  The  Moorish  peasantry 
will  be  permitted  to  till  their  farms  in  peace,  undis- 
turbed by  devastating  armies,  while  the  warlike  Riffs 
can  have  their  fill  of  fighting  in  French  uniforms  and 
under  the  French  flag.  This  is  no  empty  vision,  re- 
member. Peace,  progress,  and  prosperity  are  bound  to 
come  to  Morocco,  just  as  they  have  come  to  those  other 
African  regions  upon  which  the  Frenchman  has  set  his 
hand.  Just  how  soon  they  come  depends  largely  upon 
the  Moors  themselves. 


CHAPTER  III 
SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

ZORAH-BEN-ABDALLAH  was  a  perilously 
pretty  girl,  judged  by  any  standard  that  you 
please.  She  was  unveiled — a  strange  thing  for  an 
Eastern  woman — and  the  clearness  of  her  cafe-au-lait 
complexion  was  emphasised  by  carmine  lips  and  by 
blue-black  hair,  bewilderingly  becoiffed  and  bewitch- 
ingly  bejewelled;  her  eyes  Scherazade  would  have 
envied.  She  was  leaning  from  the  window  of  a  second- 
class  compartment  in  the  ramshackle  train  which  plies 
between  Constantine  and  Biskra  and  was  quite  openly 
admiring  the  very  tight  light-blue  tunic  and  the  very 
loose  scarlet  riding-breeches  of  my  companion,  a  young 
officer  of  chasseurs  d'Afrique  who  was  rejoining  his 
regiment  at  El-Kantara. 

"She's  a  handsome  girl,"  said  I. 

"Not  for  an  Ouled-Na'il, "  said  he,  adjusting  his 
monocle  and  staring  at  her  critically,  very  much  as 
though  he  were  appraising  a  horse.  "An  Ouled-Na'iPs 
face  is  her  fortune,  you  know,  and  in  the  Ziban,  where 
they  come  from,  she  wouldn't  get  a  second  look. " 

"She  would  get  several  second  looks  on  Broad- 
way," said  I,  taking  another  one  myself.  "I  once 
travelled  twelve  thousand  miles  to  see  some  women  not 
half  as  pretty. " 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

That  is  why  I  went  to  the  Ziban,  that  strange  and 
almost  unknown  zone  of  oasis-dotted  steppes  in  south- 
ernmost Algeria.  Hemmed  in  between  the  Atlas  Moun- 
tains and  the  Great  Sahara,  it  forms  the  real  Algerian 
hinterland,  a  region  vastly  different  in  people,  manners, 
and  customs  from  either  the  desert  or  the  littoral. 
Here,  in  this  fertile  borderland,  where  the  red  tar- 
booshes and  baggy  trousers  of  the  French  outposts  are 
the  sole  signs  of  civilisation,  is  the  home  of  the  Ouled- 
Nails,  that  curious  race,  neither  Arab,  Berber,  nor  Moor, 
the  beauty  of  whose  dusky,  daring  daughters  is  a  staple 
topic  of  conversation  in  every  harem  and  native  coffee- 
house between  the  Pyramids  and  the  Pillars  of  Hercules. 

Rather  than  that  you  should  be  scandalised  later 
on,  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  understand  in  the  be- 
ginning that  the  women  of  the  Ouled-Nail  are,  so  far  as 
morality  is  concerned,  as  easy  as  an  old  shoe.  It  comes 
as  something  of  a  shock,  after  seeing  these  petite  and 
pretty  and  indescribably  picturesque  women  on  their 
native  heath,  or  rather  on  their  native  sands,  to  learn 
that  from  earliest  childhood  they  are  trained  for  a  life 
of  indifferent  virtue  very  much  as  a  horse  is  trained  for 
the  show-ring.  But  it  is  one  of  those  conditions  of 
African  life  which  must  be  accepted  by  the  traveller, 
just  as  he  accepts  as  a  matter  of  course  the  heat  and  the 
insects  and  the  dirt. 

Breaking  home  ties  almost  before  they  have  en- 
tered their  teens,  they  make  their  way  to  Biskra,  to 
Constantine,  and  to  Algiers,  yes,  and  to  Tripoli  on  the 
east  and  to  Tangier  on  the  west,  dancing  in  the  native 

57 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

coffee-houses  or  in  the  harems  of  the  rich  and  not  in- 
frequently earning  considerable  sums  thereby.  The 
Ouled-Nail  promptly  converts  all  of  her  earnings  that 
she  can  spare  into  gold,  linking  these  gold  pieces  to- 
gether into  a  sort  of  breastplate,  not  at  all  unlike  that 
jingling,  glittering  affair  which  Mary  Garden  wears  in 
her  portrayal  of  Salome.  When  this  golden  garment 
becomes  long  enough  to  reach  from  her  slender,  supple 
neck  to  her  still  more  supple  waist,  the  Ouled-Nail  re- 
tires from  business,  returns  to  the  tents  of  her  people 
in  the  edge  of  the  Great  Sands,  hides  her  pretty  face 
behind  the  veil  common  to  all  respectable  Moslem 
women,  and,  setting  her  daintily  slippered  feet  on  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  of  virtue,  leads  a  strictly 
moral  life  ever  after. 

The  peculiar  dances  of  the  Ouled-Nails  demand 
many  years  of  arduous  and  constant  practice.  A  girl 
is  scarcely  out  of  her  cradle  before,  under  the  tutelage 
of  her  mother,  who  has  herself  been  a  danseuse  in  her 
time,  she  begins  the  inconceivably  severe  course  of  gym- 
nastics and  muscle  training  which  is  the  foundation 
of  their  strange  and  suggestive  dances.  From  infancy 
until,  scarcely  in  her  teens,  she  bids  farewell  to  the  tent 
life  of  the  desert  and  sets  out  to  make  her  fortune  in 
the  cities  along  the  African  littoral,  she  is  as  carefully 
groomed  and  trained  as  a  colt  entered  at  the  county 
fair.  Morning,  noon,  and  night,  day  after  day,  year 
after  year,  the  muscles  of  her  chest,  her  back,  her  hips, 
and  her  abdomen  are  developed  and  trained  and  sup- 
pled until  they  will  respond  to  her  wishes  as  readily  as 

58 


Ou!ed-Nail  dancing-girb.     "Petite,  piquant,  and  indescribably  picturesque. 


Women  of  the  "Great  Tem=.''     The  wife  and  daughter  of  a  nomad  sheikh  of  the  Algerian  Sahara. 
SOME  SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS. 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

her  slender,  henna-stained  fingers.  Her  lustrous,  blue- 
black  hair  is  brushed  and  combed  and  oiled  and  brushed 
again;  she  is  taught  to  play  the  hautboy,  the  zither, 
and  the  flute  and  to  sing  the  weird  and  plaintive  songs 
the  Arab  loves;  to  make  the  thick,  black  native  coffee 
and  with  inimitable  dexterity  to  roll  a  cigarette.  By 
the  time  she  is  thirteen  she  is  ready  to  make  her  d6but 
in  the  dance-hall  of  some  Algerian  town,  whence,  after 
three  or  four  or  possibly  five  years  of  a  life  of  indifferent 
virtue,  she  returns,  a-clank  with  gold  pieces,  to  the 
tented  village  from  which  she  came,  to  marry  some 
sheikh  or  camel-dealer  and  to  bear  him  children,  who, 
if  they  are  boys,  will  don  the  white  turban  and  scarlet 
burnoose  of  the  Spahis  and  serve  in  the  armies  of 
France,  or,  if  they  are  girls,  will  live  the  life  of  their 
mother  all  over  again.  It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that 
the  profession  is  an  hereditary  one,  which  all  the  women 
of  the  tribe  pursue  without  incurring,  so  far  as  I  could 
learn,  a  hint  of  scandal  or  a  trace  of  shame.  It  is  a 
queer  business,  and  one  to  which  no  other  country,  so 
far  as  I  am  aware,  offers  a  parallel,  for  whereas  the 
geishas  of  Japan,  the  nautches  of  India,  and  the  oda- 
lisques of  Turkey  are  but  classes,  the  Ouled-Nails  are 
a  race,  as  distinct  in  features,  language,  and  customs 
as  the  Bedouin,  the  Nubian,  or  the  Jew. 

That  the  men  of  the  Ouled-Nail  (which,  by  the 
way,  is  pronounced  as  though  the  last  syllable  were 
spelled  "Nile")  look  upon  the  lives  led  by  their  sisters, 
daughters,  and  sweethearts  with  much  the  same  tolera- 
tion and  approval  that  an  up-State  farmer  shows  for  the 

59 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

village  maid  who  goes  to  the  city  to  earn  a  living  as  a 
waitress,  a  stenographer,  or  a  shop-girl,  is  proved  by  a 
little  incident  which  Mr.  S.  H.  Leeder,  the  English 
author-traveller,  tells  of  having  once  witnessed  on  the 
station-platform  at  Biskra.  A  tall  young  tribesman  of 
the  Ouled-Nail,  the  son  of  a  sheikh  of  some  importance, 
was  leaving  Biskra,  to  which  town  he  had  been  paying  a 
short  visit  with  his  mother.  He  was  taking  back  with 
him  one  of  his  countrywomen,  a  dancing-girl  named 
Kadra,  who  had  been  a  resident  in  the  Rue  Sainte,  as 
Biskra's  Tenderloin  is  known,  for  two  or  three  years, 
and  was  quite  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  with  the  in- 
tention of  marrying  her.  Here  was  this  girl,  after  such 
an  amazing  episode  in  her  career,  quietly  dressed,  veiled 
to  the  eyes,  and  carefully  chaperoned  by  the  prospec- 
tive bridegroom's  mother,  returning  to  assume  a  posi- 
tion of  rank  and  consideration  among  her  own  people, 
while  several  of  her  late  companions,  tears  of  sorrow  at 
the  parting  pouring  down  their  unveiled  and  painted 
faces,  clung  to  and  caressed  her  with  every  sign  of  child- 
like affection.  And  such  marriages,  I  have  been  assured 
by  French  officials,  are  not  the  exception  but  the  rule 
in  the  Ziban.  Never  was  the  truth  brought  home  to 
me  more  sharply  that  "East  is  East,  and  West  is  West, 
and  never  the  twain  shall  meet"  than  in  the  land  of  the 
Ouled-Nails,  where,  unlike  our  own,  it  is  never  too  late 
to  mend;  not  even  for  a  woman. 

Barring  the  two  who  appeared  in  the  production 
of  "The  Garden  of  Allah,"  the  only  genuine  Ouled- 
Nails  ever  seen  in  the  United  States  were  those  who, 

60 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

owing  to  the  enterprise  of  some  far-seeing  showman, 
were  responsible  for  introducing  that  orgy  of  suggestive- 
ness  known  as  the  danse  du  ventre  to  the  American  pub- 
lic at  the  Chicago  World's  Fair  of  1893,  a  dance  which, 
thanks  to  numerous  but  unskilled  imitators,  French, 
Egyptian,  and  Syrian,  spread  from  ocean  to  ocean  under 
the  vulgar  but  descriptive  nickname  of  "the  houchee- 
kouchee."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  danse  du  ventre, 
as  seen  in  the  questionable  resorts  of  our  own  country, 
has  about  as  much  in  common  with  the  real  dance  of 
the  desert  people,  as  performed  on  a  silken  carpet  spread 
before  the  tent  of  some  nomad  sheikh,  as  the  so-called 
"  Spanish  fandango"  of  the  vaudeville  stage  has  with  the 
inimitably  beautiful  and  difficult  dances  to  be  seen  at 
Sefior  Otero's  dancing-academy  in  Seville.  The  dance 
of  the  Ouled-Nails  is  the  very  essence  of  Oriental  de- 
pravity. It  is  the  dance  of  the  pasha's  harem;  it  is  the 
dance  of  those  native  cafes  which  the  European  tourists 
are  always  so  eager  to  visit;  it  is  the  dance  which  every 
little  girl  of  the  tribe  is  taught — long  years  before  she 
knows  its  meaning. 

Depraved  though  they  are,  the  Ouled-Nails  never 
depart  in  their  dress  from  that  which  would  be  consid- 
ered perfectly  proper  and  respectable  even  by  Mr. 
Anthony  Comstock.  The  painters  of  every  country 
seem  to  have  taken  a  peculiar  delight  in  depicting  Arab 
dancing-girls  as  conspicuously  shy  of  clothing,  but, 
picturesqueness  aside,  the  decollete  gown  of  an  Ameri- 
can woman  would  embarrass  and  shock  these  daughters 
of  the  sands  as  much  as  it  would  all  Moslems,  for  though 

61 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

they  may  be  somewhat  lacking  in  morals  they  are  never 
lacking  in  clothes.  The  women  of  the  Ouled-Nail  are 
considerably  below  the  medium  height  and,  owing  to 
the  peculiar  fashion  in  which  their  gaudy-hued  tarlatan 
skirts  are  bunched  out  around  the  waist  and  are  short- 
ened to  display  their  trim  ankles  and  massive  silver 
anklets,  they  appear  even  smaller  than  they  really  are. 
Their  hands  and  feet  are  small  and  wonderfully  per- 
fect— if  one  is  able  to  overlook  the  nails  stained  crimson 
with  henna;  arched  eyebrows  meet  over  eyes  as  big  and 
lustrous  and  melting  as  those  of  a  gazelle;  while  their 
wonderful  blue-black  hair,  plaited  into  ropes  and  heav- 
ily bejewelled — whether  the  "jewels"  are  genuine  or 
not  is  no  great  matter — is  brought  down  over  the  ears 
in  the  fashion  which  made  Geo  de  Merode  famous. 

But  the  really  distinguishing  feature  of  the  Ouled- 
Nail's  costume  is  her  jewelry.  She  has  so  much  of  it, 
in  fact,  that  there  is  no  gold  to  be  had  in  Algeria.  Ask 
for  napoleons  instead  of  paper  money  at  your  bank  in 
Algiers  and  you  will  meet  with  a  prompt 

"Impossible,  m'sieur." 

"But  why  is  it  impossible?"  you  ask. 

"Because  we  have  no  gold,  m'sieur,"  is  the  polite 
response. 

"Where  is  it,  then?"  you  inquire,  scenting  a  rob- 
bery or  an  anticipated  run  on  the  bank. 

"On  the  Ouled-Nails,  m'sieur,"  the  cashier  courte- 
ously replies. 

And  he  speaks  the  literal  truth.  Every  centime 
that  a  dancing-girl  can  beg,  borrow,  or  earn  goes  toward 

62 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

the  purchase  of  massive  silver  jewelry,  anklets,  brace- 
lets, and  the  like,  and  these  in  turn  are  exchanged  for 
gold  pieces — whether  French  napoleons,  English  sover- 
eigns, or  Turkish  liras  she  is  not  at  all  particular — 
which,  linked  together  in  that  golden  armour  of  which 
I  have  already  spoken,  envelops  her  lithe  young  body 
from  neck  to  hips.  When  her  portable  wealth  has  at- 
tained to  such  dimensions  it  is  usually  the  sign  for  the 
Ouled-Nail  to  retire  from  business,  going  to  her  desert 
husband  with  her  dowry  about  her  neck. 

When  it  is  remembered  that  the  native  quarters  of 
these  towns  in  the  edge  of  the  Sahara  are  frequented  by 
savage  desert  tribesmen  who  know  little  and  care  less 
about  civilisation  and  the  law,  is  it  to  be  wondered  at 
that  time  and  time  again  these  unprotected  girls  are 
done  to  death  in  the  little  rooms  up  the  steep,  dark 
stairs  for  the  sake  of  the  gold  which  they  display  so 
lavishly  as  part  of  their  allurements?  During  my  stay 
in  one  of  these  Algerian  towns  an  Arab,  stealthily  com- 
ing up  behind  an  Ouled-Nail  as  she  was  returning  one 
night  from  the  dance-hall  through  the  narrow,  deserted 
streets,  drove  a  knife  between  her  shoulders  and,  snatch- 
ing the  little  fortune  which  hung  about  her  neck,  fled 
with  it  into  the  desert.  But  the  arm  of  the  French  law 
is  very  long,  reaching  even  across  the  sand  wastes  of  the 
Great  Sahara,  and  months  later,  when  he  thought  all 
search  for  him  had  been  abandoned,  the  fugitive  felt 
its  grasp  as  he  sat,  cross-legged,  in  the  distant  bazaars  of 
Wadai.  After  that  came  the  trial  and  the  guillotine, 
for  in  Algeria,  as  in  the  other  lands  which  they  have  con- 

63 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

quered,  the  French  have  taught  the  natives  by  such 
grim  object-lessons  that  punishment  follows  swift  on  the 
heels  of  crime. 

Now,  if  that  same  crime  had  been  committed  fifty 
miles  to  the  eastward,  across  the  Tunisian  frontier, 
the  murderer  would,  in  all  likelihood,  have  gotten  off 
with  thirteen  months  in  jail — that  is,  if  he  was  caught  at 
all.  For,  though  the  regency  of  Tunisia  is  French  in 
pretty  much  everything  but  name,  it  has  been  deemed 
wise  to  maintain  the  fiction  of  Tunisian  independence 
by  permitting  the  Bey  a  good  deal  of  latitude  so  far  as 
the  punishment  of  his  own  subjects  is  concerned,  his 
ideas  of  justice  (la  justice  du  Bey  it  is  called,  in  contra- 
distinction to  la  justice  franqaise,  which  is  a  very  differ- 
ent sort  of  justice  indeed)  usually  working  out  in  a 
fashion  truly  Oriental.  In  Tunisia  all  death  sentences 
must  be  confirmed  by  the  Bey  in  person,  the  condemned 
man  being  brought  before  him  as  he  sits  on  his  gilt-and- 
velvet  throne  in  the  great  white  palace  of  the  Bardo. 
In  the  presence  of  the  sovereign  the  murderer  is  sud- 
denly brought  face  to  face  with  the  members  of  his 
victim's  family,  for  such  things  are  always  done  dra- 
matically in  the  East.  The  Bey  then  inquires  of  the 
family  if  they  insist  on  the  execution  of  the  murderer, 
or  if  they  are  willing  to  accept  the  blood-money,  as  it  is 
called,  a  sum  equivalent  to  one  hundred  and  forty  dol- 
lars, which  in  theory  is  paid  by  the  murderer  to  the 
relatives  of  his  victims  as  a  sort  of  indemnity  if  he  is 
allowed  to  escape  with  his  life.  If,  however,  he  does 
not  possess  so  large  a  sum,  as  is  frequently  the  case, 

64 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

the  Bey  makes  it  up  out  of  his  private  purse.  Nine 
times  out  of  ten,  if  the  victim  was  a  woman,  the  blood- 
money  is  promptly  accepted — and  praise  be  to  Allah 
for  getting  it! — for  in  Africa  women  are  plenty  but  gold 
is  scarce.  In  case  the  blood-money  is  accepted  the 
murderer's  sentence  is  commuted  to  imprisonment  for 
twelve  months  and  twenty-seven  days,  though  just  why 
the  odd  twenty-seven  I  have  never  been  able  to  learn. 
But  it  may  have  been  that  it  was  an  only  son,  or 
a  husband,  or  a  chieftain  of  importance  who  was 
murdered,  and  in  such  cases  the  relatives  invariably 
demand  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law. 

"Do  you  insist  on  his  blood?"  inquires  the  Bey,  a 
portly  and  easy-going  Oriental  who  has  a  marked  aver- 
sion to  taking  life,  even  in  the  case  of  murderers. 

"We  do,  your  Highness,"  replies  the  spokesman  of 
the  family,  salaaming  until  his  tarboosh-tassel  sweeps 
the  floor. 

"Be  it  so,"  says  the  Bey,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"I  call  upon  you  to  bear  witness  that  I  am  innocent  of 
his  death.  May  Allah  the  Compassionate  have  mercy 
upon  him!  Turn  him  toward  the  gate  of  the  Bardo," 
which  last  is  the  local  euphemism  for  "Take  him  out 
and  hang  him."  Five  minutes  later  the  wretch  is 
adorning  a  gallows  which  has  been  set  up  in  the  palace 
gardens. 

Due  north  from  the  land  of  the  Ouled-Nails,  and 
hemmed  in  by  the  snow-capped  peaks  of  the  Atlas, 
is  the  Grand  Kabylia,  a  wild,  strange  region,  peopled 
by  many  but  known  to  few.    Whence  the  Kabyles  came 

65 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

nobody  knows,  though  their  fair  complexions,  red  hair, 
and  blue  eyes  lead  the  ethnologists  to  suppose  that  they 
are  a  branch  of  that  equally  white  and  equally  mysteri- 
ous Berber  race  who  occupy  the  Moroccan  ranges  of 
the  Atlas.  Thirteen  hundred  years  ago  they  came  to 
North  Africa  from  out  of  the  East,  bringing  with  them  a 
civilisation  and  a  culture  and  institutions  distinctively 
their  own.  Retreating  into  their  mountain  fastnesses 
before  that  Arab  invasion  which  spread  the  faith  of  the 
Prophet  over  all  North  Africa,  they  have  dwelt  there 
ever  since,  the  French,  who  conquered  them  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  last  century  only  after  heavy  losses,  having 
wisely  refrained  from  interference  in  their  tribal  laws 
or  customs,  which  remain,  therefore,  almost  unmodified. 
Though  the  Kabyles,  of  all  the  Moslem  races,  treat 
their  women  with  the  greatest  respect,  neither  imprison- 
ing them  in  harems  nor  hiding  them  beneath  veils  and 
swaddling-clothes,  they  share  with  the  mountaineers  of 
the  Caucasus  the  somewhat  dubious  distinction  of  sell- 
ing their  daughters  to  the  highest  bidder.  Between  the 
Circassians  and  the  Kabyles  there  is,  however,  a  distinc- 
tion with  a  difference,  for,  whereas  the  former  sell  their 
daughters  in  cold  blood  and  take  not  the  slightest  in- 
terest in  what  becomes  of  them  thereafter,  the  Kabyle 
parent  expects,  even  if  he  does  not  always  insist,  that 
the  man  who  purchases  his  daughter  shall  marry  her. 
A  fine,  upstanding  Kabyle  maiden  of  fifteen  or  there- 
abouts, with  the  lines  of  a  thoroughbred,  the  profile  of  a 
cameo,  and  a  skin  the  colour  of  a  bronze  statue,  will 
fetch  her  parents  anywhere  from  eighty  to  three  hun- 

66 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

dred  dollars,  at  least  so  I  was  told  at  Tizi-Ouzou,  the 
chef-lieu  of  the  district,  and  the  man  who  told  me  as- 
sured me  very  earnestly  that,  the  crops  having  been 
bad,  a  girl  could  be  bought  very  cheaply,  and  begged 
me  to  think  it  over. 

Though  the  Mauresques  of  Algeria,  the  Jewesses  of 
Tunisia,  and  the  fair-skinned  beauties  of  Circassia  com- 
bine a  voluptuous  figure  with  an  altogether  exceptional 
beauty  of  complexion  and  features,  the  women  of  Kaby- 
lia,  with  their  flashing  teeth,  their  sparkling  eyes,  their 
full  red  lips,  their  lithe,  slender  bodies,  and  their 
haughty,  insolent  manners,  suggest  a  civilisation  older 
and  more  sensuous,  and  entirely  alien  to  our  own.  The 
humblest  peasant  girl,  grinding  the  family  flour  between 
the  upper  and  the  nether  stones  in  the  doorway  of  a  mud 
hovel,  possesses  so  marked  a  distinction  of  feature  and 
figure  and  bearing  that  it  is  not  difficult  to  believe  that 
Cleopatra  or  Helen  of  Troy  might  well  have  come  from 
this  same  race. 

The  approach  of  a  Kabyle  woman  is  heralded  in 
two  ways:  first,  by  a  strong-scented  perfume,  which, 
like  the  celebrated  parfum  du  Bey  of  Tunis,  is  composed 
of  the  blended  scents  of  a  score  or  more  different  kinds 
of  blossoms,  the  odour  changing  from  carnation  to  rose, 
to  heliotrope,  to  violet,  and  so  on  every  few  minutes 
(no,  I  didn't  believe  it  either,  until  I  tried  it) ;  and,  sec- 
ondly, by  the  clink  and  jingle  of  the  bracelets,  anklets, 
necklaces,  and  bijoux  of  gold,  silver,  turquoise,  and  coral 
with  which  they  are  loaded  down,  and  which  sound, 
when  they  move,  like  an  approaching  four-in-hand. 

67 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Good  specimens  of  this  Kabyle  jewelry  are  becoming 
increasingly  difficult  to  obtain,  by  the  way,  and  bring 
high  prices  in  the  shops  of  Tunis  and  Algiers,  being 
eagerly  sought  after  by  collectors. 

Personally,  I  am  quite  unable  to  picture  an  admirer 
making  love  to  one  of  these  insolent-eyed  beauties,  for 
they  are  headstrong  and  hot  of  temper,  and  if  the  gentle- 
man happened  to  say  the  wrong  thing  he  would  very 
probably  find  the  yataghan,  which  every  Kabyle  maiden 
carries,  planted  neatly  between  his  shoulders.  They 
seem  to  be  fond  of  cold  steel,  do  these  Kabyles,  for  at 
the  conclusion  of  a  wedding  ceremony  the  bridegroom, 
walking  backward,  holds  before  him  an  unsheathed 
dagger  and  the  bride,  following  him,  keeps  the  point  of 
it  between  her  teeth.  Another  wedding  custom  of 
Kabylia,  no  less  strange,  consists  of  the  partial  martyr- 
dom of  the  bride,  who,  clad  in  her  marriage  finery, 
stands  for  an  entire  morning  with  her  back  to  a  stone 
pillar  in  the  village  square,  her  eyes  closed,  her  arms 
close  at  her  sides,  and  her  only  foothold  the  column's 
narrow  base,  the  cynosure  of  hundreds  of  curious  eyes. 
Despite  the  stern  stuff  of  which  the  Kabyle  women  are 
made,  it  is  small  wonder  that  the  bride  usually  faints 
before  this  peculiarly  harrowing  ordeal  is  over. 

As  far  removed  from  these  half-savage  women  of 
Ouled-Nail  and  of  Kabylia  as  a  Philadelphia  Quakeress 
is  from  a  Cheyenne  squaw  are  those  poor  prisoner 
women  of  whose  pale,  half-hidden  faces  the  visitor  to 
the  North  African  coast  towns  sometimes  gets  a  glimpse 
at  the  barred  window  of  a  harem,  or  meets  at  nightfall 

68 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

hastening  home  from  their  sole  diversion,  the  weekly 
excursion  to  the  cemetery.  You  can  see  them  for  your- 
self any  Friday  afternoon  if  you  will  loiter  without  the 
whitewashed  gateway  to  the  cemetery  of  Bou-Kabrin, 
on  the  hill  above  Algiers,  for  they  believe  that  on  that 
day — the  Moslem  Sabbath — the  spirits  of  the  dead  re- 
visit the  earth,  and  hence  their  weekly  pilgrimage  to 
the  cemetery  to  keep  them  company.  When  the  sun 
begins  to  sink  behind  the  Atlas  these  white-veiled 
pyramids  of  femininity  reluctantly  begin  to  make  their 
way  back  through  the  narrow,  winding  lanes  of  the 
native  city,  disappearing  one  by  one  through  doors 
which  will  not  open  for  them  until  another  Friday  has 
rolled  around.  Picture  such  a  life,  my  friends:  six 
days  a  week  encloistered  behind  jealously  guarded  doors 
and  on  the  seventh  taking  an  outing  in  the  cemetery  ! 

That  many  of  these  Mauresque  women  of  the  coast 
towns  are  very  beautiful — just  as  many  others  are  ex- 
ceedingly ugly — there  is  but  little  doubt,  though  they 
are  so  sheeted,  shrouded,  veiled,  and  draped  from  pry- 
ing masculine  eyes  that  a  man  may  know  of  their 
beauty  only  by  hearsay.  I  imagine  that  the  dress  of  the 
Mauresque  woman  was  specially  designed  to  baffle  mas- 
culine curiosity,  for  if  Aphrodite  herself  were  enveloped 
in  a  white  linen  sheet  from  head  to  waist,  and  in  enor- 
mous and  ridiculous  pantaloons  from  waist  to  ankle, 
she  could  go  where  she  pleased  without  being  troubled 
by  admirers.  Not  only  is  a  Mauresque  woman  never 
permitted  to  see  a  man — or  rather,  the  man  is  not  per- 
mitted to  see  her,  for  despite  all  precautions  she  some 

69 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

times  manages  to  catch  glimpses  of  people  through  the 
lattices  of  her  harem  windows — but  she  may  not  re- 
ceive a  visit  from  her  father  or  brother  without  her  hus- 
band's permission.  When  she  is  ill  enough  to  require 
the  services  of  a  physician — and  she  has  to  be  very  ill 
indeed  before  one  is  summoned — incredibly  elaborate 
are  the  preparations.  All  the  women  of  her  household 
are  ranged  about  the  bed,  while  her  servants  hide  her 
under  the  bedclothes  almost  to  the  point  of  suffoca- 
tion. If  her  pulse  has  to  be  felt  a  servant  covers  her 
hand  and  arm  so  carefully  that  only  an  inch  or  so  of 
her^  wrist  is  visible.  If  she  has  hurt  her  shoulder,  or 
back,  or  leg,  a  hole  is  made  in  the  bedclothes  so  that  the 
doctor  may  just  be  able  to  see  the  injured  place,  and 
nothing  more.  Should  he  have  the  hardihood  to  insist 
on  looking  at  her  tongue,  the  precautions  are  still  more 
elaborate,  the  attendants  covering  the  patient's  face 
with  their  hands  and  just  leaving  room  between  their 
fingers  so  that  her  tongue  may  be  stuck  out.  I  know 
a  French  physician  in  Tunis  who  told  me  that  he  was 
once  called  to  attend  the  favourite  wife  of  a  wealthy 
Arab  merchant,  and  that  while  he  was  conducting  the 
examination  the  lady's  husband  stood  behind  him  with 
the  muzzle  of  a  revolver  pressed  into  the  small  of  his 
back. 

Always  over  the  head  of  the  Arab  woman  hangs  the 
shadow  of  divorce.  Nowhere  in  the  world  does  the  law 
so  facilitate  the  separation  of  man  and  wife.  If  a  man 
grows  weary  of  his  wife's  looks,  of  her  temper,  or  of  her 
dress;  if  he  wishes  to  replace  her  with  another;  or  if 

70 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

he  is  tired  of  married  life  and  does  not  wish  a  wife  at 
all,  he  has  but  scant  difficulty  in  getting  rid  of  her,  for 
in  North  Africa  a  divorce  can  be  had  in  fifteen  minutes 
at  a  total  cost  of  a  dollar  and  twenty  cents.  In  theory, 
either  husband  or  wife  may  divorce  the  other  by  a  sim- 
ple formality,  without  assigning  any  reason  whatever. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  actual  divorce  by  the  man 
is  rare,  the  Moslem  husband  usually  preferring  to  get 
rid  of  his  wife  by  a  process  called  repudiation,  which 
bears  with  great  injustice  and  cruelty  on  the  woman. 
If  he  tires  of  her  for  any  reason,  or  merely  wishes 
to  replace  her,  he  drives  her  away  with  the  words 
"  Woman,  get  thee  hence;  take  thy  goods  and  go. "  In 
this  case,  although  the  husband  is  free  to  remarry,  the 
woman  is  not  and  can  only  obtain  a  legal  release  by 
returning  to  the  man  the  money  which  he  paid  for  her. 
The  woman  may  apply  to  the  courts  for  divorce  with- 
out her  husband's  consent  only  if  she  is  able  to  prove 
that  he  ill-treats  or  beats  her  without  sufficient  reason,  if 
he  refuses  her  food,  clothes,  or  lodging,  or  if  she  dis- 
covers a  previous  wooing  on  her  husband's  part,  all 
previous  betrothals,  or  even  offers  of  marriage,  whether 
the  other  lady  refused  or  accepted  him,  being  considered 
ground  for  divorce. 

The  next  time  you  happen  to  be  in  Tunis  don't  fail 
to  pay  a  visit  to  the  divorce  court.  It  is  the  most 
Haroun-al-Raschidic  institution  this  side  of  Samarkand. 
A  great  hall  of  justice,  vaulted  and  floored  with  marble 
and  strewn  with  Eastern  carpets,  forms  the  setting, 
while  husbands  in  turbans  and  lawyers  in  tarbooshes, 

71 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

white-veiled  women  and  green-robed,  gray-bearded 
judges  complete  a  scene  which  might  have  been  taken 
straight  from  the  Arabian  Nights.  The  women, 
closely  veiled  and  hooded,  and  herded  like  so  many 
cattle  within  an  iron  grill,  take  no  part  in  the  proceed- 
ings which  so  intimately  affect  their  futures,  their  inter- 
ests being  left  in  the  hands  of  a  voluble  and  gesticulative 
avocat.  On  either  side  of  the  hall  is  a  series  of  alcoves, 
and  in  each  alcove,  seated  cross-legged  on  a  many- 
cushioned  divan,  is  a  gold-turbaned  and  green-robed 
cadi.  To  him  the  husband  states  his  case,  the  wife 
putting  in  her  defence — if  she  has  any — through  her 
lawyer  and  rarely  appearing  in  person.  The  judge 
considers  the  facts  in  silence,  gravely  stroking  his  long, 
gray  beard,  and  then  delivers  his  decision — in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  so  I  was  told,  in  favour  of  the  husband. 
Should  either  party  be  dissatisfied,  he  or  she  can  take 
an  appeal  by  the  simple  process  of  walking  across  the 
room  and  laying  the  case  before  one  of  the  judges 
sitting  on  the  other  side,  whose  decision  is  final.  A 
case,  even  if  appealed,  is  generally  disposed  of  in  less 
than  an  hour  and  at  a  total  cost  of  six  francs,  which 
goes  to  show  that  the  record  for  quick-and-easy  divorces 
is  not  held  by  Reno. 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  Moslem  view-point  that 
infidelity  on  the  part  of  the  husband  is  no  cause  for 
divorce  whatsoever,  while  infidelity  on  the  part  of  the 
wife,  owing  to  the  strict  surveillance  under  which  Mos- 
lem women  are  kept  and  the  prison-like  houses  in  which 
they  are  confined,  occurs  so  rarely  as  to  be  scarcely 

72 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

worth  mentioning.  Should  a  Moslem  woman  so  far 
succeed  in  evading  the  vigilance  of  her  jailers  as  to  enter 
into  a  liaison  with  a  man,  instead  of  a  divorce  trial  there 
would  be  two  funerals.  To  put  his  wife  and  her  para- 
mour out  of  the  way  without  detection  is  a  matter  of 
no  great  difficulty  for  an  Arab  husband,  for  if  any  one 
disappears  in  a  Mohammedan  country  the  harem 
system  renders  a  search  extremely  difficult,  if  not,  in- 
deed, wholly  out  of  the  question.  In  fact,  it  has  hap- 
pened very  frequently,  especially  in  such  populous 
centres  as  Tangier,  Algiers,  Tunis,  Tripoli,  and  Cairo, 
that  a  man  has  enticed  his  rival  into  his  house,  either 
keeping  him  a  prisoner  for  life  or  slowly  killing  him  by 
torture.  Though  the  French  authorities  are  perfectly 
well  aware  of  such  occurrences,  neither  they  in  Algeria 
and  Tunisia  nor  the  English  in  Egypt  feel  themselves 
strongly  enough  intrenched  to  risk  the  outburst  of 
fanaticism  which  would  inevitably  ensue  should  they 
violate  the  privacy  of  a  harem. 

I  am  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact  that  it  has  become 
the  fashion  among  those  travellers  who  confine  their 
investigations  of  African  life  to  the  lanes  about  Mus- 
tapha  Superieur,  to  the  souks  of  Tunis,  and  to  the  alleys 
back  of  the  Mousky,  to  pooh-pooh  the  idea  that  slavery 
still  exists  in  North  Africa.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  how- 
ever— though  this  the  European  officials  will,  for  rea- 
sons of  policy,  stoutly  deny — slavery  not  only  exists 
sub  rosa  in  Algeria  and  Tunisia  and  in  Egypt,  but  slave 
markets  are  still  openly  maintained  in  the  inland  towns 
of  Morocco  and  Tripolitania,  the  French  and  Italian 

73 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

occupations  notwithstanding.  When  a  wealthy  Mos- 
lem wants  slaves  nowadays  he  does  not  send  traders  to 
Circassia  or  raiders  to  Uganda,  but  he  applies  to  one  of 
the  well-known  dealers  in  Tetuan,  or  Tripoli,  or  Treb- 
izond,  a  marriage  contract  is  drawn  up,  and  all  the 
ceremonies  of  legal  wedlock  are  gone  through  by  proxy. 
By  resorting  to  these  fictitious  marriages  and  similar 
subterfuges,  the  owner  of  a  harem  may  procure  as  many 
slaves,  white,  brown,  or  black,  as  he  wishes,  and  once 
they  are  within  the  walls  of  his  house,  no  one  can  possi- 
bly interfere  to  release  them,  for,  the  police  being  under 
no  conditions  permitted  to  violate  the  privacy  of  a 
harem,  there  is  obviously  no  safeguard  for  the  liberty, 
or  even  the  lives,  of  its  inmates.  As  a  result  of  this 
system,  a  constant  stream  of  female  slaves — fair-haired 
beauties  from  Georgia  and  Circassia,  brown-skinned 
Arab  girls  from  the  borders  of  the  Sahara,  and  negresses 
from  Equatoria — trickles  into  the  North  African  coast 
towns  by  various  roundabout  channels,  and,  though 
the  European  officials  are  perfectly  well  aware  of  this 
condition  of  things,  they  are  powerless  to  end  it.  The 
women  thus  obtained,  though  nominally  wives,  are  in 
reality  slaves,  for  they  are  bought  for  money,  they  are 
not  consulted  about  their  sale,  they  cannot  go  away  if 
they  are  discontented,  and  their  very  fives  are  at  the 
disposal  of  their  masters.  If  that  is  not  slavery,  I  don't 
know  what  is. 

In  those  cases  where  the  European  authorities  have 
ventured  to  meddle  with  native  customs,  particularly 
those  concerning  a  husband's  treatment  of  his  wife,  the 

74 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

interference  frequently  has  had  curious  results.  A 
wealthy  Arab  from  the  interior  of  Oran,  starting  on  a 
journey  to  the  capital  of  that  province,  bade  the  wife 
whom  he  adored  an  affectionate  good-bye.  Returning 
several  days  before  he  was  expected,  he  seized  the  smil- 
ing woman,  who  rushed  to  greet  him,  tied  her  hands, 
and  dragging  her  into  the  street  gave  her  a  furious  beat- 
ing in  the  presence  of  the  astounded  neighbours.  No, 
she  had  not  been  unfaithful  to  him,  he  said,  between  the 
blows,  nor  had  she  been  unkind.  He  not  only  was  not 
tired  of  her,  so  he  assured  the  onlookers,  but  she  was  a 
veritable  jewel  of  a  wife.  Finally,  when  his  arm  grew 
tired  and  he  stopped  to  take  breath,  he  explained  that, 
passing  through  a  street  in  Oran,  he  had  seen  a  crowd 
following  a  man  who  was  being  dragged  along  by  two 
gendarmes.  Upon  inquiry  he  learned  that  he  was  being 
taken  to  prison  for  having  beaten  his  wife.  Therefore 
he  had  ridden  home  at  top  speed,  without  even  waiting 
to  complete  his  business,  so  that  he  might  prove  to  him- 
self, to  his  wife,  and  to  his  neighbours  that  he,  at  least, 
was  still  master  in  his  own  house  and  could  beat  his  wife 
when  he  chose. 

And  here  is  another  incident  which  illustrates  the 
fashion  in  which  the  French  administrators  in  Algeria 
deal  with  those  ticklish  questions  which  involve  Arab 
domestic  relations.  A  farmer  and  his  wife  were  travel- 
ling through  the  interior;  he  was  on  a  donkey  and  she,  of 
course,  on  foot.  Along  came  an  Arab  sheikh  on  horse- 
back and  offered  the  woman  a  lift.  She  accepted,  and 
presently,  growing  confidential,  admitted  that  she  was 

75 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

unhappily  married  and  detested  her  husband.  Her 
companion  proposing  an  elopement,  she  readily  agreed. 
Accordingly,  when  they  came  to  a  by-road,  this  Lochin- 
var  of  the  desert  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  galloped  off 
with  the  lady  across  his  saddle-bow,  paying  no  heed  to 
the  shouts  and  protestations  of  the  husband  toiling 
along  in  the  dust  behind.  Though  he  succeeded  in 
tracing  the  runaway  couple  to  the  sheikh's  village,  the 
husband  quickly  found  that  plans  had  been  made 
against  his  coming,  for  the  villagers  asserted  to  a  man 
that  they  had  known  the  eloping  pair  for  years  as  man 
and  wife  and  that  the  real  husband  was  nothing  but  an 
impudent  impostor.  Unable  to  regain  his  wife,  he  then 
appealed  to  the  French  authorities  of  the  district,  who 
were  at  first  at  somewhat  of  a  loss  how  to  act  in  the 
circumstances,  for  the  Europeans  in  North  Africa  are 
always  sitting  on  top  of  a  powder  barrel  and  a  hasty  or 
ill-considered  action  may  result  in  blowing  them  higher 
than  Gilderoy's  kite.  Finally,  an  inspiration  came  to 
the  juge  d' instruction  before  whom  the  matter  had  been 
brought.  Placing  the  dogs  of  the  real  husband  in  one 
room,  and  those  of  the  pretended  husband  in  another, 
he  confronted  the  woman  with  them  both.  Now,  Arab 
dogs  are  notoriously  faithful  to  the  members  of  their 
own  households  and  equally  unfriendly  toward  all 
strangers,  so  that  though  her  own  dogs  fawned  upon  her 
and  attempted  to  lick  her  hand,  those  of  the  sheikh 
snarled  at  sight  of  her  and  showed  every  sign  of  dis- 
trust. The  judge  promptly  ordered  her  to  be  returned 
to  her  lawful  husband — who,  I  fancy,  punished  her  in 

76 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

true  Arab  fashion — and  had  the  village  placarded  with 
a  notice  in  Arabic  which  read:  "The  testimony  of  one 
dog  is  more  to  be  believed  than  that  of  a  townful  of 
Arabs. "  To  appreciate  how  much  more  effective  than 
any  amount  of  fines  or  imprisonment  this  notice  proved, 
one  must  remember  that  the  deadliest  insult  an  Arab 
can  give  another  is  to  call  him  a  dog. 

Perhaps  it  is  because  they  live  so  far  from  the  con- 
taminating influence  of  civilisation,  or  what  stands  for 
civilisation  in  North  Africa,  that  the  lives  of  those  women 
who  dwell  beneath  the  black  camel's-hair  tents  of  the 
Sahara  are  far  freer  and  happier  than  those  led  by  their 
urban  cousins.  Which  reminds  me  of  a  little  procession 
that  I  once  met  while  riding  through  southern  Algeria. 
It  consisted  of  an  Arab,  his  wife,  and  a  donkey.  The 
man  strode  in  front,  his  rifle  over  his  shoulder.  Then 
came  the  donkey,  bearing  nothing  heavier  than  its 
harness.  In  the  rear  trudged  the  wife,  carrying  the 
plough.  Though  the  Arab  women  may,  and  prob- 
ably do,  till  the  fields  yoked  beside  a  camel,  a  donkey, 
or  an  ox,  their  faces  are  unveiled  and  they  are  permitted 
free  intercourse  with  the  men  of  their  tribe.  Even 
among  the  nomad  desert  folk,  however,  women  are 
regarded  with  indifference  and  contempt,  the  Arabs 
saying  of  a  boy  "It  is  a  benediction,"  but  of  a  girl  "It 
is  a  malediction."  With  the  Arabs  a  woman  is  pri- 
marily regarded  as  a  servant,  and  long  before  a  daughter 
of  the  "  Great  Tents  "  has  entered  her  teens  she  has  been 
taught  how  to  cut  and  fit  a  burnoose,  to  sew  a  tent 
cover,  and  to  make  a  couscous,  that  peculiar  dish  of 

77 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

half -ground  barley,  raisins,  honey,  hard-boiled  eggs,  and 
mangled  fowl,  stewed  with  a  gravy  in  a  sealed  vessel,  of 
which  the  Arabs  are  so  fond.  By  the  time  she  is  ten 
her  parents  have  probably  received  and  accepted  an 
offer  for  her  hand — and  praise  Allah  for  ridding  them  of 
her! — and  by  the  time  she  is  twelve  she  is  married  and 
a  mother.  When  a  match  has  been  decided  upon — and 
it  is  by  no  means  an  uncommon  thing  for  an  unborn 
child  to  become  conditionally  engaged — several  days  of 
haggling  as  to  the  price  which  is  to  be  paid  for  her  en- 
sue, the  bridegroom  eventually  getting  her  at  a  cost 
of  several  camels,  cattle,  or  goats,  her  value  being  based 
upon  her  looks  and  the  position  of  her  parents.  On 
the  day  of  the  wedding  the  bride — on  whose  unveiled 
face,  remember,  the  bridegroom  has  never  laid  eyes — 
concealed  within  a  swaying  camel-litter  which  looks 
for  all  the  world  like  a  young  balloon,  preceded  by  a 
band  and  accompanied  by  all  her  relatives,  is  taken 
with  much  ceremony  to  her  new  home.  When  the 
long-drawn-out  marriage  feast  is  over,  the  hideous 
racket  of  the  flutes  and  tom-toms  ceases  and  the  wed- 
ding guests  depart.  Alone  in  her  tent,  the  bride  awaits 
her  husband,  who  will  see  her  face  for  the  first  time. 
Seating  himself  by  her  side,  her  husband  makes  her 
take  off,  one  by  one,  her  necklaces,  her  rings,  and 
her  anklets,  so  that,  unadorned,  she  may  be  estimated 
at  her  true  worth.  If,  thus  stripped  of  her  finery,  she 
is  not  up  to  his  expectations,  the  man  may  even  at  this 
late  hour  declare  the  marriage  off  and  send  the  girl  back 
to  her  parents.     Should  he  be  satisfied  with  his  latest 

78 


SIRENS  OF  THE  SANDS 

acquisition — for  it  is  more  than  likely  that  he  already 
has  three  or  four  other  wives — he  produces  a  club,  which 
he  places  on  the  floor  beside  her,  a  custom  whose  sig- 
nificance requires  no  explanation.  An  Arab  husband 
does  not  confine  himself  to  a  stick  in  regulating  his 
domestic  affairs,  however,  for  only  a  few  months  ago 
the  French  authorities  of  Oran  divested  a  desert  sheikh 
of  the  burnoose  of  authority  because,  in  a  fit  of  jealous 
rage,  he  had  cut  off  his  wife's  nose. 


7* 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

SINCE  the  world  began  the  arm  of  Italy  has  reached 
out  into  the  Mediterranean  toward  Africa,  its  fin- 
ger pointing  straight  at  Tripoli.  Phoenicians,  Greeks, 
Romans,  Vandals,  Byzantines,  Arabs,  Spaniards,  and 
Turks  followed  the  suggestion  of  that  finger  in  their 
turn,  but  of  them  all  only  the  Arab  and  the  Turk  re- 
main. In  every  case  a  colonial  empire  was  the  mirage 
which  beckoned  to  those  land-hungry  peoples  from  be- 
hind the  golden  haze  which  hangs  over  the  African 
coast-line,  and  in  every  case  their  African  adventures 
ended  in  disappointment  and  disaster.  After  an  in- 
terim of  centuries,  in  which  the  roads  and  ramparts  and 
reservoirs  built  along  that  shore  by  those  primeval 
pioneers  have  crumbled  into  dust,  the  troop-laden 
transports  of  a  regenerated  Italy  have  followed  in  the 
wake  of  those  Greek  galleys,  those  Roman  triremes,  and 
those  Spanish  caravels.  Undeterred  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  her  disastrous  Abyssinian  adventure,  Italy  is 
imbued  with  the  idea,  just  as  were  her  powerful  pre- 
decessors, that  her  commercial  and  political  interests 
demand  the  extension  of  her  dominion  across  the  Mid- 
dle Sea. 

Ever  since  the  purple  sails  of  Phoenicia  first  flaunted 
along  its  coasts  the  history  of  Tripolitania  has  been  one 

8m 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

of  invasion  and  conquest.  In  the  very  dawn  of  history 
the  galleys  of  Greece  dropped  anchor  off  this  shore,  in 
the  belief  that  it  was  the  Garden  of  the  Hesperides,  and 
the  vestiges  of  their  colony  of  Cyrenaica  lure  the  ar- 
chaeologists to-day.  The  Greeks,  who,  because  of  its 
three  leagued  cities  of  Oea,  Sabrata,  and  Leptis,  named 
their  new  possession  Tripolis,  just  as  Decapolis  signi- 
fied the  region  of  ten  cities  and  Pentapolis  of  five,  re- 
treated before  Carthage's  colonial  expansion,  and  the 
Carthaginians  gave  way  in  turn  to  the  conquering 
Romans,  who  included  the  captured  territory  within 
their  province  of  Africa  and  called  it  Regio  Tripolitana 
— whence  the  name  it  bears  to-day.  Christianity  was 
scarcely  four  centuries  old  when  the  hordes  of  fierce- 
faced,  skin-clad  Vandals,  sweeping  down  from  their 
Germanic  forests,  burst  into  Gaul,  poured  through  the 
passes  of  the  Pyrenees,  overran  Spain,  and,  crossing 
the  Strait  of  Gibraltar,  carried  fire  and  sword  and 
torture  from  end  to  end  of  the  Mediterranean.  Before 
another  century  had  rolled  around,  however,  Belisarius, 
the  great  captain  of  Byzantium,  had  broken  the  Vandal 
power  forever,  and  the  troubled  land  of  Tripolitania 
once  again  came  under  the  shadow  of  the  cross.  Then 
the  wave  of  Arab  conquest  came,  rolling  across  North 
Africa,  breaking  upon  the  coasts  of  Spain,  and  not  sub- 
siding until  it  reached  the  marches  of  France,  supplant- 
ing the  feeble  Christianity  of  the  natives  of  all  this  re- 
gion with  the  vigorous  and  fanatical  faith  of  Islam. 
Though  Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  not  content  with  ex- 
pelling the  Moors  from  Spain,  continued  his  crusade 

81 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

against  the  infidel  by  capturing  the  Tripolitan  capital, 
the  Knights  of  Saint  John,  to  whom  he  turned  the  city 
over,  surrendered  to  the  beleaguering  Turks  just  as 
the  sixteenth  century  had  reached  its  turning-point, 
and  Turkish  it  has  remained,  at  least  in  name,  ever 
since. 

We  of  the  West  can  never  be  wholly  indifferent  to 
the  fate  and  fortunes  of  this  much-harassed  land,  for 
our  flag  has  fluttered  from  its  ramparts  and  the  bay- 
onets of  our  soldiers  and  the  cutlasses  of  our  sailors  have 
served  to  write  some  of  the  most  stirring  chapters  of  its 
history.  So  feeble  and  nominal  did  the  Turkish  rule 
become  that  the  beginning  of  the  last  century  found 
Tripolitania  little  more  than  a  pirate  stronghold,  ruled 
by  a  pasha  who  had  not  only  successfully  defied,  but 
had  actually  levied  systematic  tribute  upon,  every  sea- 
faring nation  in  the  world.  It  was  not,  however,  until 
the  Pasha  of  Tripoli  overstepped  the  bounds  of  our 
national  complaisance  by  demanding  an  increase  in  the 
annual  tribute  of  eighty-odd  thousand  dollars  which 
the  United  States  had  been  paying  as  the  price  of  its 
maritime  exemption  that  the  American  consul  handed 
him  an  ultimatum  and  an  American  war-ship  backed  it 
up  with  the  menace  of  its  guns.  Standing  forth  in  pic- 
turesque and  striking  relief  from  the  tedium  of  the  four 
years'  war  which  ensued  was  the  capture  by  the  Tri- 
politans  in  1803  of  the  frigate  Philadelphia,  which  had 
run  aground  in  the  harbour  of  Tripoli,  and  the  enslave- 
ment of  her  crew;  her  subsequent  recapture  and  de- 
struction by  a  handful  of  blue-jackets  under  the  intrepid 

82 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN " 

Decatur;  and  the  heroic  march  across  the  desert  to 
Derna  of  General  William  Eaton  and  his  motley 
army. 

Eaton's  exploit,  like  that  of  Reid  and  the  General 
Armstrong  at  Fayal,  seems  to  have  been  all  but  lost  in 
the  mazes  of  our  national  history.  With  the  object  of 
placing  upon  the  Tripolitan  throne  the  reigning  Pasha's 
exiled  elder  brother,  who  had  agreed  to  satisfy  all  the 
demands  of  the  United  States,  William  Eaton,  soldier 
of  fortune,  frontiersman,  and  former  American  consul 
at  Tunis,  recruited  at  Alexandria  what  was  thought  to 
be  a  ridiculously  insufficient  expeditionary  force  for 
the  taking  of  Derna,  a  strongly  fortified  coast  town  six 
hundred  miles  due  west  across  the  Libyan  desert.  With 
a  handful  of  adventurous  Americans,  some  two-score 
Greeks,  who  fought  the  Turk  whenever  opportunity 
offered,  and  a  few  squadrons  of  Arab  mercenaries — less 
than  five  hundred  men  in  all — he  set  out  under  the 
blazing  sun  of  an  African  spring.  Though  his  Arabs 
mutinied,  his  food  and  water  gave  out,  and  his  animals 
died  from  starvation  and  exhaustion,  Eaton  pushed 
indomitably  on,  covering  the  six  hundred  miles  of 
burning  sand  in  fifty  days,  carrying  the  city  by  storm, 
and  raising  the  American  flag  over  its  citadel — the 
first  and  only  time  it  has  ever  floated  over  a  fortification 
on  that  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

A  territory  larger  than  all  the  Atlantic  States,  from 
Florida  to  Maine,  put  together;  a  dry  climate  as  hot  in 
summer  and  as  cold  in  winter  as  that  of  New  Mexico; 
a  surface  which  varies  between  the  aridity  of  the  Staked 

83 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Plains  and  the  fertility  of  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  of 
California;  so  sparsely  populated  that  its  fanatic,  tur- 
bulent, poverty-stricken  population  averages  but  two 
inhabitants  to  the  square  mile — that  is  Tripolitania. 
Bounded  on  the  west  by  Tunisia  and  the  French  and  on 
the  east  by  Egypt  and  the  English,  the  hinterland  of  the 
regency  stretches  into  the  Sahara  as  far  as  the  Tropic 
of  Cancer.  Its  eleven  hundred  miles  of  coast-line  set 
squarely  in  the  middle  of  the  north  African  littoral;  its 
capital  almost  equidistant  from  the  Straits,  the  Dar- 
danelles, and  the  Suez  Canal;  and  hah  the  great  ports 
of  the  Mediterranean  not  twelve  hours'  steam  away,  the 
strategical,  political,  and  commercial  position  of  Trip- 
olitania is  one  of  great  importance. 

Tripolitania,  as  the  regency  should  properly  be 
called,  or  Libya,  as  the  Italians  have  classically  renamed 
it,  consists  of  four  more  or  less  distinctly  denned  divi- 
sions: Tripoli,  Fezzan,  Benghazi,  and  the  Saharan 
oases.  Under  the  Turkish  regime  the  districts  of 
Tripoli  and  Fezzan  have  formed  a  vilayet  under  a  vali, 
or  governor-general;  Benghazi  has  been  a  separately 
administered  province  under  a  mutes-sarif  directly  re- 
sponsible to  Constantinople,  while  the  oases  have  not 
been  governed  at  all.  The  district  of  Tripoli,  which  oc- 
cupies the  entire  northwestern  portion  of  the  regency, 
is  for  the  most  part  an  interminable  stony  table-land, 
riverless,  waterless,  and  uninhabited  save  along  the 
fertile  coast.  The  stretches  of  yellow  sand  which  the 
traveller  sees  from  the  deck  of  his  ship  are  not,  as  he 
fondly  imagines,  the  edge  of  the  Sahara,  but  merely 

84 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN'' 

sand  dunes  blown  in  by  the  sea,  such  as  may  be  seen  else- 
where on  the  Mediterranean  coast. 

Sloping  from  these  coastal  sand  dunes  up  to  the 
barren  interior  plateau  is  a  zone,  averaging  perhaps  five 
miles  in  width,  of  an  altogether  remarkable  fertility, 
for  its  deep  ravines,  filled  with  considerable  streams 
during  the  winter  rains,  continue  to  send  down  a  sup- 
ply of  subterranean  water  even  during  the  dry  season. 
By  means  of  countless  wells,  round  and  round  which 
blindfolded  donkeys  and  oxen  plod  ceaselessly,  the 
water  is  drawn  up  into  reservoirs  and  conducted  thence 
to  the  fields.  In  this  coast  oasis  it  is  harvest-time  all 
the  year  round,  for,  notwithstanding  the  primitive 
agricultural  implements  of  the  natives  and  their  crude 
system  of  irrigation,  the  soil  is  amazingly  productive. 
From  April  to  June  almonds,  apricots,  and  corn  are 
gathered  in;  in  July  and  August  come  the  peaches; 
from  July  to  September  is  the  vintage  season,  and  the 
Tripolitan  grapes  vie  with  those  of  Sicily;  from  July 
to  September  the  black  tents  of  the  nomad  date  and 
olive  pickers  dot  the  fields,  though  the  yellow  date  of 
the  coast  is  not  to  be  spoken  of  in  the  same  breath  with 
the  luscious,  mahogany-coloured  fruit  of  the  interior 
oases  f  from  November  to  April  the  orange  groves  are 
ablaze  with  a  fruit  which  rivals  that  of  Jaffa;  the  early 
spring  sees  the  shipment  of  those  "Malta  potatoes" 
which  are  quoted  on  the  menus  of  every  fashionable 
hostelry  and  restaurant  in  Europe;  while  lemons  are 
to  be  had  for  the  picking  at  almost  any  season,  of 
the  year. 

85 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Southward  into  the  Sahara  from  the  southern  bor- 
ders of  Tripoli  stretches  the  province  of  Fezzan,  its 
inaccessibility,  its  prevalent  malaria,  and  its  deadly 
heat  having  popularised  it  with  Abdul-Hamid,  of  un- 
savoury memory,  as  a  place  of  exile  for  disgraced  cour- 
tiers and  overpopular  officials,  presumably  because 
of  the  exceeding  improbability  of  any  of  them  ever 
coming  back.  Artesian  wells  and  scientific  farming 
have  proved  in  other  and  equally  discouraging  quarters 
of  Africa,  however,  that  the  words  "desert"  and 
"worthless"  are  no  longer  synonymous,  so  there  is  no 
reason  to  believe  that  the  agricultural  miracles  which 
France  has  performed  in  Algeria  and  Tunisia  on  the  one 
hand,  and  England  in  Egypt  and  the  Sudan  on  the 
other,  could  not  be  successfully  attempted  by  the  Ital- 
ians in  Fezzan.  Arid  and  inhospitable  as  this  region 
appears  to-day,  it  should  be  remembered  that  its  Greek 
and  Roman  colonists  boasted  of  it  as  "the  granary  of 
Europe. "  What  has  been  done  once  may  well  be  done 
again.  All  that  this  soil  needs,  after  its  centuries  of 
impoverishment  and  neglect,  is  decent  treatment,  and 
any  one  who  has  seen  those  vineyards  on  the  slopes  of 
Capri  and  those  farmsteads  clinging  to  the  rocky  hill- 
sides of  Calabria,  where  soil  of  any  kind  is  so  precious 
that  every  inch  is  tended  with  pathetic  care,  will  pre- 
dict a  promising  agricultural  future  for  an  Italian 
Tripolitania.  In  its  physical  aspects,  northern  Trip- 
olitania  resembles  Europe  much  more  than  it  does 
Africa;  its  climate  is  no  warmer  than  southern  Italy 
in  summer  and  not  nearly  as  unhealthy  as  the  Campagna 

86 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

Romana;  while  its  soil,  as  I  have  already  remarked, 
holds  great  possibilities  for  patient,  hardy,  frugal,  in- 
dustrious agriculturists  of  the  type  of  those  twenty 
thousand  Sicilians  who  are  forced  by  poverty  to  emi- 
grate each  year  to  America  or  the  Argentine.  Keep- 
ing these  facts  in  mind,  one  does  not  have  to  seek 
far  for  the  causes  which  underlay  Italy's  sudden  ag- 
gression. 

Reaching  Egyptward  in  the  form  of  a  mighty  fist 
is  the  peninsula  of  Barka,  the  Cyrenaica  of  the  ancients, 
officially  known  as  the  Mutessariflik  of  Benghazi,  its 
many  natural  advantages  of  climate,  soil,  and  vegeta- 
tion making  it  the  most  favoured  region  in  the  regency, 
if  not,  indeed,  in  all  North  Africa.  While  the  climate 
and  vegetation  of  southern  Tripoli  and  of  Fezzan  are 
distinctly  Saharan,  the  date-palm  being  the  character- 
istic tree,  Benghazi  is  just  as  decidedly  Mediterranean, 
its  fertile,  verdure-clad  uplands  being  covered  with 
groves  of  oak,  cypress,  olive,  fig,  and  pine.  Though 
well  supplied  with  rain  and,  as  I  have  said,  extremely 
fertile,  the  Benghazi  province,  once  the  richest  of  the 
Greek  colonies,  is  now  but  scantily  populated.  Scat- 
tered along  its  coasts  are  Benghazi,  the  capital,  with  an 
inextricably  mixed  population  and  one  of  the  worst 
harbours  in  the  world;  Tobruk,  which,  because  of  its 
excellent  roadstead  and  its  proximity  to  the  Egyptian 
frontier  and  the  Canal,  Germany  has  long  had  a  covet- 
ous eye  on;  and  the  insignificant  ports  of  Derna  and 
Khoms,  the  lawless  highlands  of  the  interior  being 
occupied  by  hordes  of  warlike  and  nomadic  Arabs 

87 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

who  acknowledge  no  authority  other  than  their  tribal 
sheikhs. 

South  by  east  into  the  Libyan  Desert  straggle  the 
Aujila  and  Kufra  chains  of  oases,  marking  the  course 
of  the  historic  caravan  route  to  Upper  Egypt  and  pre- 
senting the  aspect  of  a  long,  winding  valley,  extending 
from  the  Benghazi  plateau  almost  to  the  banks  of  the 
Nile.  Underground  reservoirs  lie  so  near  the  surface  of 
the  desert  that  all  of  these  sand-surrounded  islands  have 
water  in  abundance,  that  of  Jof ,  for  example,  support- 
ing over  a  million  date-palms  and  several  thousand  peo- 
ple, together  with  their  camels,  horses,  and  goats. 

Such,  in  brief,  bold  outline,  are  the  more  salient 
characteristics — climatic,  agricultural,  and  geograph- 
ical— of  the  region  which  Italy  has  seized.  Everything 
considered,  it  was  not  such  a  long  look  ahead  that  the 
Italian  statesmen  took  when  they  decided  to  play  their 
cards  for  such  a  stake.  Though  neither  soil  nor  cli- 
mate has  changed  since  the  days  of  Tripolitania's  an- 
cient prosperity,  centuries  of  wretched  and  corrupt 
Turkish  rule,  with  its  system  of  absentee  landlords  and 
irresponsible  officials,  has  reduced  the  peasantry  to  the 
same  state  of  dull  and  despairing  apathy  in  which 
the  Egyptian  fellaheen  were  before  the  English  came. 
If  Tripolitania  is  to  be  redeemed,  and  I  firmly  believe 
that  it  will  be,  the  work  of  regeneration  cannot  be  done 
by  government  railways  and  subsidised  steam-ship  lines 
and  regiments  of  brass-bound  officials,  but  by  patient, 
painstaking,  plodding  men  with  artesian-well  drilling 
machines  and  steam-ploughs  and  barrels  of  fertiliser.   It 

88 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

may  well  be,  as  the  Italian  expansionists  enthusiasti- 
cally declare,  that  Tripolitania  constitutes  a  "New 
Italy"  lying  at  the  very  ports  of  old  Italy,  but  it  is 
going  to  take  many,  many  millions  of  lire  and  much 
hard  work  to  make  it  worth  the  having. 

To  those  unaccustomed  to  the  sights  and  sounds 
and  smells  of  the  East,  a  visit  to  the  town  of  Tripoli 
is  more  interesting  than  enjoyable.  Both  its  harbour 
and  its  hostelry  are  so  incredibly  bad  that  no  one  ever 
visits  them  a  second  time  if  he  can  possibly  help  it. 
The  harbour  of  Jaffa,  in  Palestine,  is  a  trifle  worse,  if 
anything,  than  that  of  Tripoli;  but  the  only  hotel  I 
know  of  which  deserves  to  be  classed  with  the  Albergo 
Minerva  in  Tripoli  is  the  one  next  door  to  the  native 
jail  in  Aden.  Picture  a  cluster  of  square,  squat,  stuc- 
coed houses,  their  tedious  sky-lines  broken  by  the  min- 
arets of  mosques  and  the  flagstaffs  of  foreign  consulates, 
facing  on  a  crescent-shaped  bay.  Under  the  sun  of  an 
African  summer  the  white  buildings  of  the  town  blaze 
like  the  whitewashed  base  of  a  railway-station  stove  at 
white  heat;  the  stretch  of  yellow  beach  which  separates 
the  harbour  from  the  town  glows  fiery  as  brass;  while 
the  waters  of  the  bay  look  exactly  as  though  they 
had  been  blued  in  readiness  for  the  family  washing. 
Within  the  crumbling  ramparts  of  the  town  is  a  network 
of  dim  alleys  and  byways,  along  which  the  yashmaked 
Moslem  women  flit  like  ghosts,  and  vaulted,  trellis- 
roofed  bazaars  where  traders  of  two-score  nationalities 
haggle  and  gesticulate  and  doze  and  pray  and  chatter 
the  while  they  and  their  wares  and  the  passing  camels 

89 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

smell  to  heaven.  Scattered  here  and  there  among  the 
shops  are  native  bakeries,  in  the  reeking  interiors  of 
which,  after  your  eyes  become  accustomed  to  the  dark- 
ness, you  can  discern  patient  camels  plodding  round  and 
round  and  round,  grinding  the  grain  in  true  Eastern 
fashion  between  the  upper  and  the  nether  millstones. 

Follow  the  narrow  Strada  della  Marina  past  the 
custom-house,  where  the  Italian  sentry  peers  at  you 
suspiciously  from  beneath  the  bunch  of  cock's  feathers 
which  adorns  his  helmet;  past  the  odorous  fish-market 
and  so  into  the  unpaved,  unlighted,  foul-smelling  quar- 
ter of  the  Jews,  and  your  path  will  be  blocked  eventually 
by  the  sole  remaining  relic  of  Tripoli's  one-time  great- 
ness, the  marble  arch  of  triumph  erected  by  the  Romans 
in  the  reign  of  AntQiinus  Pius,  now  half -buried  in 
debris,  its  chiselled  boasts  of  victory  mutilated,  and  its 
arches  ruthlessly  plastered  up,  the  shop  of  a  dealer  in 
dried  fish.  In  that  defaced  and  degraded  memorial 
is  typified  the  latter-day  history  of  Tripolitania.  Be- 
fore the  Italian  occupation  disrupted  the  commerce  of 
the  country  and  isolated  Tripoli  from  the  interior,  by 
long  odds  the  most  interesting  of  the  city's  sights  were 
the  markets,  which  were  held  upon  the  beach  on  the 
arrival  of  the  trans-Saharan  caravans,  for  they  afforded 
the  foreigner  fleeting  but  characteristic  glimpses,  as 
though  on  a  moving-picture  screen,  of  those  strange 
and  savage  peoples — Berbers,  Hausas,  Tuaregs,  Tub- 
bas,  and  Wadaians — who  are  retreating  farther  and 
farther  into  the  recesses  of  the  continent  before  the 

white  man's  implacable  advance. 

90 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

All  down  the  ages  Tripoli  has  been  the  gateway 
through  which  weapons,  cutlery,  and  cotton  have  en- 
tered, and  slaves,  ostrich  feathers,  and  ivory  have  come 
out  of  inner  Africa  by  plodding  caravan.  Since  the  sons 
of  Ham  first  found  their  way  across  the  wilderness  of 
Shur,  this  region  has  been  the  terminus  of  three  his- 
toric trade  routes.  The  first  of  these  runs  due  south 
across  the  desert  to  Lake  Tchad  and  the  great  native 
states  of  Kanem,  Sokoto,  Bagirmi,  and  Wadai;  the 
second  follows  a  southwesterly  course  across  the  Sahara 
to  the  Great  Bend  of  the  Niger  and  the  storied  city  of 
Timbuktu;  while  the  third,  going  south  by  east,  long 
carried  British  cottons  and  German  jack-knives  to  the 
natives  of  Darfur  and  the  Sudan.  Is  it  any  wonder, 
then,  that,  fired  by  the  speeches  of  the  expansionists  in 
the  Roman  senate,  all  Italy  should  dream  of  a  day  when 
the  red-white-and-green  banner  should  float  over  this 
gateway  to  Africa  and  endless  lines  of  dust-coloured 
camels,  laden  with  glass  beads  from  Venice  and  cotton 
goods  from  Milan,  should  go  rolling  southward  to  those 
countries  which  lie  beyond  the  great  sands?  But,  lost 
in  the  fascination  of  their  dream,  the  Italians  forgot 
one  thing:  modern  commerce  cannot  go  on  the  back 
of  a  camel.  No  longer  may  Tripolitania  be  reckoned 
the  front  door,  or  even  the  side  door,  to  central  Africa. 
As  the  result  of  French  and  British  encroachment  and 
enterprise,  not  only  has  nearly  all  of  the  Tripolitanian 
hinterland  been  absorbed  by  one  or  the  other  of  these 
powers,  but,  what  is  of  far  more  commercial  importance, 
they  have  succeeded  in  diverting  the  large  and  impor- 

9i 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

tant  caravan  trade  of  which  the  Italians  dreamed,  and 
which  for  centuries  has  found  its  way  to  the  sea  through 
Tripoli,  to  their  own  ports  on  the  Nile,  the  Senegal,  and 
the  Niger,  leaving  to  Tripolitania  Italiana  nothing  but 
its  possibilities  as  an  agricultural  land. 

The  statesmen  who  planned,  and  the  soldiers  and 
sailors  who  executed,  the  seizure  of  Tripolitania,  were 
obeying  a  voice  from  the  grave.  Though  the  over- 
whelming disaster  to  the  Italians  at  Adowa  in  1896, 
when  their  army  of  invasion  was  wiped  out  by  Menelik's 
Abyssinian  tribesmen,  caused  the  political  downfall  of 
Crispi,  the  greatest  Italian  of  his  time,  his  dream  of 
Italian  colonial  expansion,  like  John  Brown's  soul, 
went  marching  on.  With  the  vision  of  a  prophet  that 
great  statesman  saw  that  the  day  was  not  far  distant 
when  the  steady  increase  in  Italy's  population  and  pro- 
duction would  compel  her  to  acquire  a  colonial  market 
over-sea.  Crispi  lies  mouldering  in  his  grave,  but  the 
Italian  Government,  in  pursuance  of  the  policy  which 
he  inaugurated,  has  been  surreptitiously  at  work  in 
Tripolitania  these  dozen  years  or  more. 

Never  has  that  forerunner  to  annexation  known  as 
"pacific  penetration"  been  more  subtly  or  more  sys- 
tematically conducted.  Even  the  Pope  lent  the  gov- 
ernment's policy  of  African  aggrandisement  his  sanc- 
tion, for  is  not  the  Moslem  the  hereditary  foe  of  the 
church,  and  does  not  the  cross  follow  close  in  the  wake 
of  Christian  bayonets?  Italian  convents  and  monas- 
teries dot  the  Tripolitanian  littoral,  while  cowled  and 
sandalled  missionaries  from  the  innumerable  Italian 

92 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

orders  have  carried  the  gospel,  and  the  propaganda  of 
Italian  annexation,  to  the  oppressed  and  poverty- 
stricken  peasantry  of  the  far  interior.  Under  the  guise 
of  scientists,  Italian  political  and  commercial  agents 
have  been  quietly  investigating  the  problems  and  possi- 
bilities of  the  regency  from  end  to  end,  while  the  power- 
ful Banco  di  Roma,  an  institution  backed  with  the 
funds  of  the  Holy  See,  through  its  branches  in  Tripoli 
and  Benghazi,  has  been  systematically  buying  up  arable 
farm-lands  from  the  impoverished  peasantry  at  a  few 
lire  the  hectare,  which  quadrupled  in  value  with  the 
landing  of  the  first  Italian  soldier. 

Though  prior  to  the  war  there  were  probably  not  two 
thousand  native-born  Italians  in  the  whole  of  Tripolita- 
nia,  the  numerous  Jews,  in  whose  hands  was  practically 
the  entire  trade  of  the  country,  were  offered  inducements 
of  one  kind  and  another  to  become  Italian  subjects,  Italy 
thus  laying  a  foundation  for  her  claims  to  predominating 
interests  in  that  region.  On  the  pretext  that  the  Turkish 
authorities  had  tampered  with  the  foreign  mail-bags, 
Italy  demanded  and  obtained  permission  to  establish 
her  own  post-offices  at  the  principal  ports,  so  that  for 
many  years  past  the  anomalous  spectacle  has  been  pre- 
sented, just  as  in  other  portions  of  the  Turkish  Empire, 
of  letters  from  a  Turkish  colony  being  franked  with 
surcharged  Italian  stamps.  The  most  ingenious  stroke, 
however,  was  the  establishment  of  numerous  Italian 
schools — and  very  good  schools  they  are — where  the 
young  idea,  whether  Arab,  Maltese,  or  Jew,  has  been 
taught  to  shoot — along  Italian  lines. 

93 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

To  those  really  conversant  with  the  situation, 
Italy's  pretexts  that  the  activities  of  her  subjects  resi- 
dent in  Tripolitania  had  been  interfered  with  and  their 
lives  and  interests  seriously  endangered  sound  some- 
what hollow.  To  tell  the  truth,  Italians  have  had  a 
freer  rein  in  the  regency — and,  incidentally,  have  caused 
more  trouble — than  any  other  people.  Italy's  real 
reasons  for  the  seizure  of  Tripolitania  were  two,  and 
only  two:  first,  she  wanted  it;  and  second,  she  could 
get  it. 

Now  that  she  has  Tripolitania  in  her  grasp,  how- 
ever, her  task  is  but  begun,  for  setting  forward  the  hands 
of  progress  by  occupation  of  Moslem  territory  has  ever 
been  a  perilous  proceeding.  Though  France  shouldered 
the  white  man's  burden  in  Algeria  with  alacrity,  she 
paid  for  the  privilege  with  just  forty  years  of  fighting; 
it  took  England,  with  all  the  resources  of  her  colonial  ex- 
perience and  her  colonial  army,  sixteen  years  to  conquer 
the  ill-armed  Arabs  of  the  Sudan,  while  the  desperate 
resistance  of  the  Mad  Mullah  and  his  fanatic  tribes- 
men has  compelled  her  practically  to  evacuate  Somali- 
land;  overthrown  ministries,  depleted  war-chests,  and 
thousands  of  unmarked  graves  in  the  hinterland  bear 
witness  to  the  deep  solicitude  displayed  for  the  cause  of 
civilisation  in  Morocco  by  both  France  and  Spain; 
Russia  spent  a  quarter  of  a  century  and  the  fives  of 
ten  thousand  soldiers  in  forcing  her  beneficent  rule  on 
the  Moslems  of  Turkestan.  Italy  will  be  more  fortunate 
than  her  colonising  neighbours,  therefore,  if  she  emerges 
unscathed  from  her  present  Tripolitanian  adventure, 

94 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

for  every  page  of  the  history  of  latter-day  colonisation 
proves  that  seizure  of  Moslem  territory  never  ends  with 
a  naval  demonstration,  a  landing  party,  a  staff  with 
a  descending  and  an  ascending  flag,  and  the  flash  and 
thunder  of  a  national  salute. 

When  Italy  pointed  the  noses  of  her  transports 
Tripoliward  she  committed  the  incredible  blunder  of  un- 
derestimating for  a  second  time  the  resistance  that  she 
would  encounter.  She  made  just  such  a  mistake  some 
years  ago  in  Abyssinia,  and  the  plain  of  Adowa  is 
still  sprinkled  with  the  bleaching  bones  of  her  anni- 
hilated army.  The  Italian  agents  in  Tripolitania  had 
assured  their  government  that,  as  a  result  of  Turkish 
oppression,  corruption,  and  overtaxation,  the  Turks 
were  heartily  disliked  by  the  Tripolitanians — all  of 
which  was  perfectly  true.  But  when  they  went  on  to 
say  that  the  Tripolitanians  would  welcome  the  expulsion 
of  the  Turks  and  the  substitution  of  an  Italian  regime, 
they  overshot  the  mark.  In  other  words,  the  Tripoli- 
tanians much  preferred  to  be  ill-treated  by  the  Turks, 
who  are  their  coreligionists,  than  to  be  well-treated  by 
the  Italians,  who  are  despised  unbelievers.  The  Ital- 
ians, having  had  no  previous  experience  with  Moslem 
peoples,  landed  at  Tripoli  with  every  expectation  of  be- 
ing welcomed  as  saviours  by  the  native  population.  It 
is  quite  true  that  the  natives  gave  the  Italians  an  ex- 
ceedingly warm  reception — with  rifles  and  machine 
guns.  Here,  then,  were  some  sixty  thousand  Italian 
soldiers,  who  had  anticipated  about  as  much  trouble  in 
taking  Tripolitania  as  we  should  in  taking  Hayti,  in- 

95 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

stead  of  being  permitted  to  play  the  jaunty  and  pictur- 
esque roles  of  deliverers  from  oppression,  being  forced 
to  battle  desperately  for  their  lives  against  the  very 
people  whom  they  had  come  to  save  and  civilise.  It 
was  a  graphic  instance  of  the  workings  of  Mohammedan- 
ism. How  Kitchener  and  Cromer,  those  two  grim  men 
who  have  had  more  experience  than  any  other  Euro- 
peans in  fighting  and  governing  Mohammedans,  must 
have  smiled  to  themselves  when  they  read  the  Italian 
statements  that  the  taking  of  Tripolitania  meant  only 
a  campaign  of  a  fortnight. 

To  comprehend  thoroughly  the  peculiar  situation  in 
which  Italy  finds  herself,  you  should  understand  that 
the  portly,  sleepy-eyed,  good-natured  old  gentleman 
who  theoretically  rules  Turkey  under  the  title  of  Mo- 
hammed V  is,  politically  speaking,  as  much  a  dual  per- 
sonality as  Dr.  Jekyll-Mr.  Hyde.  As  Sultan  of  Tur- 
key, or,  to  give  him  his  proper  title,  Emperor  of  the 
Ottomans,  he  is  the  nominal  ruler  of  some  twenty-four 
millions  of  divided,  discontented,  and  disgruntled  Turk- 
ish subjects — Osmanlis,  Arabs,  Syrians,  Armenians, 
Circassians,  Bulgars,  Greeks,  Jews — and  in  that  ca- 
pacity plays  no  great  part  in  ordering  the  affairs  of  the 
world.  But  Mohammed  V  is  more  than  Sultan  of. 
Turkey:  he  is  likewise  Successor  of  the  Prophet,  Com- 
mander of  the  Faithful,  and  Caliph  of  all  Islam,  and 
as  such  is  the  spiritual  and  temporal  leader  of  the  two 
hundred  and  twenty  millions  who  compose  the  Moslem 
world.  Nor  is  there  any  way  of  disassociating  the  two 
offices.    In  making  war  on  the  Sultan  of  Turkey,  there- 

96 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

fore,  Italy  automatically  made  war  on  the  chief  of  all 
Mohammedans,  thus  shaking  her  fist  in  the  face  not 
alone  of  a  nation  but  of  a  religion — and  the  most  mili- 
tant and  fanatical  of  all  religions  at  that.  There  is  not 
a  wearer  of  turban  or  tarboosh  between  the  Gold  Coast 
and  the  China  coast,  be  he  Hausa,  Tuareg,  Berber, 
Moor,  Algerian,  Tunisian,  Tripolitanian,  Egyptian, 
Sudanese,  Somali,  Arab,  Kurd,  Turk,  Circassian,  Per- 
sian, Turkoman,  Afghan,  Sikh,  Indian,  Malay,  or  Moro. 
who  does  not  regard  Italy's  aggression  in  Tripolitania 
as  an  affront  to  himself  and  to  his  faith. 

Among  all  Moslems  there  is  growing  an  ominous 
unrest,  a  fierce  consciousness  that  the  lands  which  they 
have  for  centuries  regarded  as  their  own  are  gradually 
slipping  from  them,  and  a  decision  that  they  must  fight 
or  disappear.  On  the  Barbary  coast,  the  Nile,  the 
Congo,  the  Niger,  and  the  Zambezi  they  see  the  turbans 
and  the  tarbooshes  retreating  before  the  white  helmets' 
implacable  advance,  and  now  they  see  even  the  Otto- 
man throne,  to  them  a  great  throne,  shaking  under  the 
pressure.  Hence  there  is  not  a  Moslem  in  the  world 
to-day  who  will  remain  indifferent  to  any  action  which 
hints  at  the  dismemberment  of  Turkey,  for  he  knows 
full  well  that  the  fate  of  the  Ottoman  Empire  and  the 
political  fortunes  of  Islam  are  inextricably  interwoven. 

That  Italy  can  hold  the  Tripolitanian  coast  towns 
as  long  as  her  ammunition,  her  patience,  and  her  public 
purse  hold  out,  no  one  acquainted  with  the  conditions 
of  modern  warfare  will  attempt  to  deny.  Unless,  how- 
ever, the  militant  section  of  Islam,  of  which  this  region 

97 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

is  the  very  focus,  can  be  induced  to  acquiesce  in  an 
Italian  occupation,  the  life  of  an  Italian  soldier  who  ven- 
tures out  of  range  of  his  war-ships'  guns  will  not  be 
worth  an  hour's  purchase.  Hordes  of  fanatical,  des- 
ert-bred Arabs,  inured  to  hardship,  deadly  sun,  scanty 
food,  and  dearth  of  water,  mounted  on  swift  camels  and 
as  familiar  with  the  trackless  desert  as  the  woodsman  is 
with  the  forest  in  which  he  works,  ablaze  with  a  reli- 
gion which  assures  them  that  the  one  sure  way  to  para- 
dise is  to  die  in  battle  with  the  unbelievers,  can  harass 
the  Italian  army  of  occupation  for  years  to  come  by  a 
guerilla  warfare.  Even  though  Turkey  agrees  to  sur- 
render Tripolitania  and  to  withdraw  her  garrisons  from 
that  province,  Italy  will  still  have  far  from  smooth  sail- 
ing, for  the  simple  reason  that  she  is  not  fighting  Turks 
alone,  but  Moslems,  and,  as  a  result  of  her  ill-advised 
slaughter  of  the  Arabs,  she  has  made  the  Moslem  popu- 
lation of  Tripolitania  permanently  hostile.  Most  signif- 
icant of  all,  the  Arab  resistance  to  an  Italian  advance 
into  the  interior  of  the  country  will  be  directed,  con- 
trolled, and  financed  by  that  sinister  and  mysterious 
power  known  as  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Senussiyeh.  i 
To  American  ears  the  word  "Senussiyeh"  doubt- 
less conveys  but  little  meaning,  but  to  the  French  ad- 
ministrateurs  in  Algeria  and  Tunisia,  and  to  the  officers 
of  the  Military  Intelligence  Department  in  Egypt  and 
the  Sudan,  it  is  a  word  of  ominous  import.  Though  the 
Brotherhood  of  the  Senussiyeh  is,  without  much  doubt, 
the  most  powerful  organisation  of  its  kind  in  the  world, 
so  complete  is  the  veil  of  secrecy  behind  which  it  works 

98 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

that  comparatively  little  is  definitely  known  as  to  its 
designs,  ramifications,  and  resources.  Briefly,  it  is  a 
secret  Moslem  society,  organised  about  a  century  ago 
by  an  Algerian  dervish,  Mohammed  ben  Ali  ben  Es 
Senussi,  from  whom  it  takes  its  name;  its  object  is  the 
restoration  of  the  Mohammedan  religion  to  its  original 
purity,  austerity,  and  political  power,  the  first  step 
toward  which  is  the  expulsion  of  the  Christian  from 
Moslem  lands;  its  initiated  members,  scattered  through- 
out the  Mohammedan  world,  have  been  variously 
estimated  at  from  five  to  fifteen  millions;  the  present 
grand  master  of  the  order,  Senussi  Ahmed-el-Sherif, 
the  third  of  the  succession,  is  admittedly  a  man  of 
exceptional  intelligence,  resource,  and  sagacity;  his 
monastic  court  at  Jof,  in  the  oasis  of  Kufra,  five  hun- 
dred miles,  as  the  camel  goes,  south  of  Benghazi  and 
about  the  same  distance  from  the  Nile,  is  the  capital 
of  a  power  whose  boundaries  are  the  boundaries  of 
Islam. 

It  is  no  secret  that  the  growing  power  of  the 
Senussiyeh  is  causing  considerable  concern  to  the  mili- 
tary and  political  officials  of  those  European  nations 
that  have  possessions  in  North  Africa,  for,  in  addition 
to  the  three-hundred-odd  zawias,  or  monasteries,  scat- 
tered along  the  African  littoral  from  Egypt  to  Morocco, 
the  long  arm  of  the  order  reaches  down  to  the  mysteri- 
ous oases  which  dot  the  Great  Sahara,  it  embraces  the 
strange  tribes  of  the  Tibesti  highlands,  it  controls  the 
robber  Tuaregs  and  the  warlike  natives  who  occupy 
the  regions  adjacent  to  Lake  Tchad,  and  is,  as  the 

99 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

French  and  British  have  discovered,  a  power  to  be  reck- 
oned with  in  the  protected  states  of  Kanem,  Sokoto, 
Bagirmi,  Bornu,  and  Wadai. 

The  organisation  of  the  order  is  both  strong  and 
simple.  The  khuan,  or  brothers,  whose  names  are  care- 
fully recorded  in  the  books  of  the  mother  lodge  at  Jof , 
owe~unquestioning  obedience  to  the  mokaddem,  or  pre- 
fect, in  charge  of  the  district  to  which  they  belong. 
Each  mokaddem  has  under  his  orders  a  corps  of  secret 
agents,  known  as  wekils,  whose  duty  is  to  keep  him  con- 
stantly in  touch  with  all  that  is  going  on  in  his  district 
and  to  communicate  his  instructions  to  the  brothers. 
On  Grand  Bairam — the  Mohammedan  Easter — the 
mokaddems  meet  in  conclave  at  Jof,  on  which  occasion 
the  spiritual  and  political  condition  of  the  order  is  dis- 
cussed and  its  course  of  action  decided  on  for  the  en- 
suing year.  Above  the  mokaddems,  and  acting  as  an 
intermediary  between  them  and  the  veiled  and  sacred 
person  of  the  Senussi  himself,  is  a  cabinet  of  viziers,  who, 
by  means  of  a  remarkable  system  of  camel  couriers,  are 
enabled  to  keep  constantly  in  touch  with  all  the  districts 
of  the  order. 

At  Jof,  from  which  no  European  investigator  has 
ever  returned,  are  centred  all  the  threads  of  this  vast 
organism.  There  is  kept  the  war-chest  of  the  order, 
constantly  increased  by  large  and  small  contributions 
from  true  believers  all  over  the  world,  for  every  member 
of  the  Senussiyeh  who  has  a  total  income  of  more  than 
twenty  dollars  a  year  must  contribute  two  and  one  half 
per  cent  of  it  to  the  order  annually;  there  the  Senussi 

IOO 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

has  established  depots  of  stores  and  war  material  and 
factories  for  the  manufacture,  or  rather  the  assembling, 
of  modern  fire-arms;  thither  come  to  him  from  the  ob- 
scure harbours  of  the  Tripolitanian  coast  cargoes  of  arms 
and  ammunition;  thither  flock  pilgrims  from  North  and 
West  Africa,  from  the  Niger  and  from  the  Nile,  to  re- 
ceive his  orders  and  to  seek  his  blessing;  there  is  cen- 
tred one  of  the  most  remarkable  secret-service  systems 
in  the  world,  its  agents  not  alone  in  every  corner  of  the 
Mohammedan  world,  but  likewise  keeping  their  fingers 
ever  on  the  political  pulse  of  Europe. 

A  place  better  fitted  for  its  purpose  than  Jof  it 
would  be  hard  to  imagine.  Here,  surrounded  by  in- 
hospitable desert,  with  wells  a  long  day's  camel-ride 
apart,  and  the  route  known  only  to  experienced  and 
loyal  guides,  the  Senussi  has  been  free  to  educate,  drill, 
and  arm  his  disciples,  to  accumulate  great  stores  of 
arms  and  ammunition,  and  to  push  forward  his  propa- 
ganda of  a  regenerated  and  reinvigorated  Islam,  with- 
out any  possibility  of  interference  from  the  Christian 
nations.  There  seems  to  be  but  little  doubt  that  fac- 
tories have  been  erected  at  Jof  for  the  assembling  of 
weapons  of  precision,  the  materials  for  which  have  been 
systematically  smuggled  across  the  Mediterranean  from 
Greece  and  Turkey  for  years  past.  Strange  as  it  may 
sound,  these  factories  are  under  the  direction  of  skilled 
engineers  and  mechanics,  for  so  well  laid  are  the  plans 
of  the  order  that  it  annually  sends  a  number  of  Moslem 
youths  to  be  educated  in  the  best  technical  schools  of 
Europe.    Upon  completing  their  courses  of  instruction 

IOI 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

they  return  to  Jof ,  or  other  centres  of  Senussiyeh  activ- 
ity, to  place  their  trained  services  at  the  disposal  of  the 
order,  others  being  sent  Europeward  to  be  educated  in 
their  turn.  The  Senussiyeh's  military  affairs  are  equally 
well  organised,  the  Arabs,  than  whom  there  is  admit- 
tedly no  finer  fighting  material  in  the  world,  being  in- 
structed along  European  lines,  modified  for  desert  war^ 
fare,  by  veteran  drill-masters  who  have  learned  their 
trade  in  the  native  armies  of  England  and  France. 
The  nucleus  of  this  mobile  and  highly  effective  force  is, 
so  I  am  told  by  French  officials  in  Af rica,'an  admirably 
mounted  and  equipped  camel  corps  of  five  thousand 
men  which  the  Senussi  keeps  always  on  a  war  footing  in 
the  Kufra  oases.  These  facts  in  themselves  prove  defi- 
nitely that  it  would  be  no  sporadic  resistance,  but  a  vast, 
organised  movement,  armed  with  improved  weapons, 
trained  by  men  who  learned  their  business  under  Euro- 
pean drill-masters,  and  directed  by  a  high  intelligence, 
with  which  Italy  would  have  to  reckon  should  she  at- 
tempt the  hazardous  experiment  of  an  advance  in  the 
real  hinterland  of  Tripolitania. 

Let  me  make  it  perfectly  clear  that  the  grand  mas- 
ter of  the  Senussiyeh  is  a  man  of  altogether  exceptional 
ability.  Under  his  direction  the  order  has  advanced 
with  amazing  strides,  for  he  is  a  remarkable  organiser 
and  administrator,  two  qualities  rarely  found  among 
the  Arabs.  The  destruction  of  the  Mahdi  and  of  the 
Khalifa,  and  the  more  recent  dethronement  of  Abdul- 
Hamid,  resulted  in  bringing  a  large  accession  of  force 

to  his  standard  by  the  extinction  of  all  religious  author- 

102 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

ity  in  Africa  except  his  own.  Though  the  Sultan  of 
Turkey  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  titular  head  of  the  Moslem 
religion,  and  is  venerated  as  such  wherever  praying-rugs 
are  spread,  the  chief  of  this  militant  order  is  undoubt- 
edly regarded  by  the  average  Mohammedan  as  the  most 
actively  powerful  figure,  if  not  as  the  saviour,  of  Islam. 
The  first  Senussi  was  powerful  enough  to  excommuni- 
cate the  Sultan  Abdul-Medjid  from  the  order  because  of 
his  intimacy  with  the  European  powers;  the  father  of 
the  present  Khedive  of  Egypt  was  accustomed  to  ad- 
dress the  second  Senussi  in  such  terms  as  a  disciple 
would  use  to  a  prophet,  while  Abbas  Hilmi  II,  the 
reigning  Khedive,  a  few  years  ago  journeyed  across  the 
Libyan  desert  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  present  head 
of  the  order. 

Those  who  are  in  a  position  to  know  whereof  they 
speak  believe  that  the  Senussiyeh  would  actively  op- 
pose any  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  Italians  to  occupy 
the  hinterland  of  Tripolitania,  for  it  is  obvious  that  such 
an  occupation  would  not  alone  bring  the  Christian  in 
dangerous  proximity  to  the  chief  stronghold  of  the  order, 
but  it  would  effectually  cut  off  the  supplies  of  arms  and 
ammunition  which  caravans  in  the  pay  of  the  Senussi- 
yeh have  regularly  been  transporting  to  Jof  from  ob- 
scure ports  on  the  Tripolitanian  coast.  It  has  been  the 
policy  of  the  Senussiyeh,  supported  by  the  Turkish 
administration  in  Tripolitania,  to  close  the  regions 
under  its  control  to  Christians,  so  it  is  scarcely  likely 
that  it  would  do  other  than  resist  an  Italian  penetra- 
tion of  the  country,  even  in  the  face  of  a  Turkish 

103 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

evacuation.  Though  the  order  encouraged  resistance 
to  the  French  advance  in  the  Sudan,  considering  that 
the  extension  of  the  French  sphere  of  influence  threat- 
ened its  own  prestige  in  those  regions,  it  has,  as  a  rule, 
refrained  from  displaying  antagonism  toward  the  rulers 
of  the  adjoining  regions.  Aside  from  proselytism,  the 
Senussiyeh  has  performed  a  great  work  in  the  Sahara 
in  the  colonisation  and  cultivation  of  the  oases,  the  en- 
couragement of  trade,  the  building  of  rest-houses,  the 
sinking  of  wells,  and  the  protection  of  trans-Saharan 
caravans. 

Stripped  of  the  glamour  and  exaggeration  with 
which  sensational  writers  and  superficial  travellers  have 
invested  the  subject,  it  is  apparent  that  the  Senussi 
controls  a  very  wide-spread  and  powerful  organisation 
— an  organisation  probably  unique  in  the  world.  As 
a  fighting  element  his  followers  are  undoubtedly  far 
superior  to  the  wild  and  wretchedly  armed  tribes- 
men who  charged  the  British  squares  so  valorously  at 
Abu  Klea  and  Omdurman  and  who  wiped  out  an  Ital- 
ian army  in  the  Abyssinian  hills.  Their  remarkable 
mobility,  their  wonderful  powers  of  endurance,  their 
large  supplies  of  the  swift  and  hardy  racing-camel 
known  as  hegin,  and  their  marvellous  knowledge  of  this 
great,  inhospitable  region,  coupled  with  the  fact  that 
they  can  always  retreat  to  their  bases  in  the  desert, 
where  civilised  troops  cannot  follow  them,  are  all  ad- 
vantages of  which  the  Senussi  and  his  followers  are 
thoroughly  aware. 

Although  the  Senussi  is,  as  I  have  shown,  amply 
104 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

capable  of  causing  the  Italians  serious  trouble,  it  is  very 
unlikely  that  he  will  prove  actively  hostile  if  they  re- 
frain from  encroaching  upon  those  remote  regions  which 
he  looks  upon  as  his  own.  Italy  will  have  her  hands 
full  with  the  development  of  the  coastal  regions  for 
many  years  to  come,  so,  if  she  is  wise,  she  will  leave  the 
interior  of  the  country  severely  alone,  recognise  the 
religious  authority  of  the  Senussi,  and,  if  possible,  effect 
some  such  working  agreement  with  him  as  England  has 
done  with  an  equally  dangerous  neighbour,  the  Amir  of 
Afghanistan. 

From  the  glimpses  which  I  have  given  you  of  the 
inhospitable  character  of  Tripolitania  and  the  still  more 
inhospitable  people  who  inhabit  it,  it  will  be  seen  that 
Italy's  task  does  not  end  with  the  ousting  of  the  Turk. 
She  has  set  her  hand  to  the  plough,  however,  and  started 
it  upon  a  long  and  arduous  and  very  costly  furrow,  the 
end  of  which  no  man  can  see.  For  a  nation  to  have  a 
colony,  or  colonies,  wherein  she  can  turn  loose  the  over- 
flow of  her  population  and  still  keep  them  under  her 
own  flag,  is  an  undeniable  asset,  particularly  when  the 
colony  is  as  accessible  from  the  mother  country  as  Libya* 
(for  we  must  accustom  ourselves  to  the  new  name  sooner 
or  later)  is  from  Italy.  But  if  Italy  is  to  be  a  success  as 
a  colonising  nation  she  must  school  herself  to  do  things 
differently  in  Tripolitania  from  what  she  has  in  her  other 
African  dependencies  of  Eritrea  and  Italian  Somaliland. 

First  and  foremost,  she  must  pick  the  men  who  are 
to  settle  her  new  colony  as  carefully  as  she  picks  the  men 

*  The  Italians  have  given  their  new  possession  the  historic  name  of  Libya. 

io5 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

for  her  carabinieri,  choosing  them  with  a  view  to  their 
intelligence,  industry,  energy,  and  sobriety,  for  to  flood 
Tripolitania  with  such  a  class  of  emigrants  as  every 
vessel  from  Italy  dumps  on  our  hospitable  shores  is 
but  to  invite  disaster. 

Secondly,  she  must  impress  on  these  colonists  the 
imperative  necessity  of  keeping  on  friendly  terms  with 
the  natives,  who  are,  after  all,  the  real  owners  of  the 
soil,  and  of  obtaining  their  co-operation  in  the  develop-, 
ment  of  the  country.  The  Arab,  remember,  unlike  the 
negro,  cannot  be  bullied  and  domineered  with  impunity, 
Germany's  African  colonies  providing  significant  exam- 
ples of  the  failures  which  invariably  result  from  ill- 
treatment  of  the  native  population. 

Thirdly,  there  must  be  no  "absentee  landlordism," 
the  future  of  the  colony  largely  depending,  to  my  way 
of  thinking,  upon  frugal,  hard-working  peasant  farm- 
ers, owning  their  own  farms,  whose  prosperity  will  thus 
be  indissolubly  linked  with  that  of  the  colony. 

Lastly,  all  local  questions  of  administration  should 
be  taken  entirely  out  of  the  hands  of  Rome  and  left  to 
"the  man  on  the  spot,"  for  history  is  filled  with  the 
chronicles  of  promising  colonies  which  have  been  ship- 
wrecked on  the  rocks  of  a  highly  centralised  form  of 
government. 

If  the  Italians  will  take  these  things  to  heart,  I  be- 
lieve that  their  conquest  of  Tripolitania  will  prove,  in 
the  end,  for  the  country's  own  best  good,  contributing 
to  its  peace  and  to  the  welfare  of  its  inhabitants,  native 
as  well  as  foreign,  and  that  it  will  promote  the  opening 

106 


THE  ITALIAN  "WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN" 

up  of  the  dark  places  to  civilisation,  if  not  to  Christi- 
anity—for the  Moslem  does  not  change  his  faith.  When, 
therefore,  all  is  said  and  done,  I  cannot  but  feel  that  the 
cross  of  the  House  of  Savoy  portends  more  good  to 
Africa  in  general,  and  to  Tripolitania  in  particular,  than 
would  ever  the  star  and  crescent. 


"Ha/Ji 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

THIS  is  the  story  of  how  a  handful  of  white  men 
jerked  a  nation  out  of  the  desert  and  the  depths 
of  despair,  as  though  by  its  collar,  set  it  on  its  feet,  and 
taught  it  to  play  the  game.  It  is  the  story  of  how 
northeast  Africa — a  region  which  God  had  seemingly 
forgotten — has  been  transformed  into  a  prosperous  and 
self-respecting  country  by  giving  it  two  things  which  it 
had  always  needed  and  had  never  known — justice  and 
water.  It  is  the  chronicle  of  a  thirty  years'  struggle, 
under  disheartening  conditions,  against  overwhelming 
odds,  and  when  you  have  finished  it  you  will  agree  with 
me,  I  think,  that  it  is  one  of  the  wonder-tales  of  history. 
It  is  a  drama  in  which  English  officials  and  Egyptian 
pashas  and  Arab  sheikhs  all  have  their  greater  or  their 
lesser  parts,  and  it  is  as  full  of  romance  and  intrigue 
and  treachery  and  fighting  as  any  moving-picture  play 
that  was  ever  thrown  upon  a  screen. 

To  my  way  of  thinking,  the  rescue  and  rehabilita- 
tion of  the  Nile  country  is  the  most  convincing  proof 
of  England's  genius  as  a  colonising  nation.  That  you 
may  be  able  to  judge,  by  comparison,  what  she  has 
accomplished,  you  must  go  back  a  third  of  a  century  or 
so,  to  the  days  when  Ismail  Pasha — he  with  the  brow  of 
a  statesman  and  the  chin  of  a  libertine — still  sat  on  the 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

throne  of  the  Pharaohs,  wielding  an  extravagant,  vacil- 
lating, and  ineffectual  rule  over  a  region  which  stretched 
from  the  Mediterranean  seaboard  southward  to  Uganda 
and  the  sleeping-sickness,  and  from  the  Red  Sea  shore 
westward  until  it  lost  itself  in  the  sand  wastes  of  the 
Great  Sahara.  Of  the  one  million  three  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  square  miles  at  that  time  included  within 
the  Egyptian  borders,  less  than  five  thousand  were 
cultivated  land;  the  rest  was  yellow  desert  and  nothing 
more.  The  seven  millions  of  blacks  and  browns  who 
composed  the  population  were  so  poor  that  the  dwellers 
in  the  slums  of  Whitechapel  were  affluent  when  com- 
pared to  them;  they  lived,  for  the  most  part,  in  wretched 
hovels  of  sun-dried  mud  scattered  along  the  banks  of 
the  Nile,  maintaining  a  hand-to-mouth  existence  by 
raising  a  low  grade  of  cotton  on  a  few  feddans  of  land 
which  they  irrigated  by  hand,  at  an  appalling  cost  of 
time  and  labour,  with  water  drawn  up  in  buckets  from 
the  river.  As  a  result  of  the  corvee,  or  system  of  forced 
labour  on  public  works  which  prevailed,  a  large  part  of 
the  population  was  virtually  in  a  state  of  slavery;  the 
taxes,  which  were  unjustly  assessed  and  incredibly  ex- 
orbitant, could  only  be  collected  with  the  aid  of  the 
kourbash,  as  the  terrible  whip  of  rhino  hide  used  by  the 
slave-dealers  was  known.  Barring  the  single  line  of 
ramshackle  railway  which  connected  Cairo  with  Alex- 
andria and  with  the  Suez  Canal,  the  only  means  of 
transportation  were  the  puffing  river-boats  and  the 
plodding  caravans.  The  unpaid  and  ill-disciplined 
army  was  a  synonym  for  cowardice,  as  proved  by  its 

109 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

defeats  by  the  tribesmen  of  Abyssinia  and  the  Sudan. 
The  Khedive  was  a  profligate  and  a  spendthrift;  his 
ministers  and  governors  were  cruel,  dishonest,  and 
tyrannical;  the  national  resources  had  been  dissipated 
in  a  veritable  debauch  of  extravagance  and  corruption. 
I  doubt,  indeed,  if  the  sun  ever  shone  on  a  more  deca- 
dent, demoralised,  and  discouraged  nation  than  was 
Egypt  on  that  June  day  in  1879,  when  a  cablegram 
from  Constantinople,  addressed,  significantly  enough, 
to  "Ismail  Pasha,  ex-Khedive  of  Egypt,"  brought  the 
Sultan's  demand  for  his  immediate  abdication  in  favour 
of  his  son  Tewfik.  Called  to  a  heritage  of  bankruptcy 
and  wide-spread  discontent,  the  new  ruler,  anxious 
though  he  undoubtedly  was  to  use  his  prerogatives 
for  his  people's  good,  found  himself  forced  to  decide 
between  European  intervention  and  native  rebellion. 
The  question  was  decided  for  him,  however,  for,  in  the 
spring  of  1882,  Arabi  and  his  lawless  soldiery  broke 
loose  and  overran  the  land. 

Whether  this  Arabi  Pasha  was  at  heart  a  patriot  or 
a  plunderer  is  a  question  which  has  never  been  satisfac- 
torily decided,  nor  is  it  one  which  particularly  concerns 
us,  although,  if  you  ever  happen  to  find  yourself  at 
Kandy,  in  the  hills  of  Ceylon,  where  he  still  lives  in 
exile,  I  would  recommend  you  to  call  upon  him,  for  he 
will  receive  you  with  marked  hospitality  and  will  talk 
to  you  quite  frankly  about  those  stirring  events  in  which 
he  played  so  prominent  a  part.  As  this  is  a  story  of  the 
present,  rather  than  of  the  past,  suffice  it  to  say  that 
Arabi,  then  an  officer  in  the  Egyptian  army,  instigated 

no 


Dance  of  Nuba  women.  Kordofan. 


Shilluk  warriors,  Blue  Nile. 


Bread-making  in  the  Lado  Enclave,  Sudan. 
WORK  AND  PLAY  IN  BLACK  MAN'S  AFRICA. 


,        THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

a  military  revolt  which  had  as  its  object  the  ending 
of  European  influence  in  the  affairs  of  Egypt.  So 
rapidly  did  this  propaganda  of  "Egypt  for  the  Egyp- 
tians!" spread  among  the  lower  classes  of  the  popula- 
tion, and  so  perilous  became  the  position  of  foreigners 
resident  in  the  country,  that,  upon  Alexandria  being 
captured  and  looted  by  the  revolutionists,  a  British 
squadron  bombarded  and  partially  destroyed  that  city, 
while  a  British  army,  hurried  from  Malta  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Canal,  in  which  England  held  the  dom- 
inating interest,  dispersed  Arabi's  forces  at  Tel-el-Kebir, 
pushed  on  across  the  desert  to  Cairo,  stamped  out  the 
remaining  embers  of  the  revolt,  and  restored  in  a  meas- 
ure the  authority  of  the  Khedive,  though  not  without 
taking  the  precaution  of  surrounding  him  with  British 
"advisers"  and  garrisoning  his  cities  with  British  troops. 
Such,  in  tabloid  form,  is  the  story  of  the  beginnings  of 
British  domination  in  the  land  of  the  Valley  of  the  Nile. 

In  view  of  the  chaotic  condition  of  the  country, 
England  naturally  decided  that  the  only  way  to  insure 
the  safety  of  her  subjects,  as  well  as  of  her  great  financial 
and  political  interests  in  that  region,  was  to  continue 
the  military  occupation  of  Egypt,  for  the  time  being  at 
least,  and  boldly  to  begin  the  task  of  its  financial, 
judicial,  political,  and  military  reconstruction.  The 
form  of  government  which  has  resulted  is,  I  suppose, 
the  most  extraordinary  in  the  history  of  nations. 

Nominally  a  province  of  the  Turkish  Empire,  and 
administered  by  a  viceroy  who  theoretically  derives  his 
power  from  the  Turkish  sovereign,  Egypt  is  autono- 

m 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

mous  (so  far  as  Turkey  is  concerned),  though  it  still  pays 
annual  tribute  of  about  three  million  five  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  to  the  Sultan.  Though  the  title  "  khedive  " 
means  sovereign  or  king,  without  qualification  or  limita- 
tion, the  real  ruler  of  Egypt  is  not  his  Highness  Abbas 
Hilmi  II,  but  his  Britannic  Majesty's  Agent  and  Con- 
sul-General — at  present  Lord  Kitchener  of  Khartoum 
— who,  though  officially  Britain's  diplomatic  representa- 
tive in  Egypt  and  nothing  more,  in  reality  exercises  al- 
most unlimited  authority  and  power.  In  other  words, 
England  has  assumed  the  position  of  a  receiver  for 
Egypt's  foreign  creditors  and  has  apparently  made 
the  receivership — which  has  never  been  agreeable  to 
the  khedivial  government — a  permanent  one.  Egypt's 
situation  might,  indeed,  be  quite  aptly  compared  to  a 
railway  system  which  has  been  forced  into  bankruptcy 
by  the  extravagant  methods  of  its  directors,  and  one  of 
whose  largest  creditors  has  become  receiver  with  full 
power  to  reorganise  the  system  for  its  stockholders'  and 
its  creditors'  best  good. 

Another  feature  of  Egypt's  complex  form  of  govern- 
ment is  the  International  Debt  Commission,  which  con- 
sists of  delegates  from  England,  France,  Germany, 
Austria,  Russia,  and  Italy,  who  are  stationed  at  Cairo 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  an  eye  on  the  national  reve- 
nues and  periodically  collecting  a  share  of  them,  over 
and  above  the  actual  running  expenses  of  the  govern- 
ment, to  pay  the  interest  on  the  Egyptian  bonds  held 
in  those  countries. 

To  this  administrative  medley  must  be  added  the 

112 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

complications  caused  by  the  Ottoman  Capitulations — 
by  which  fourteen  foreign  governments,  including  our 
own,  exercise  almost  sovereign  rights  in  Egypt,  the 
International  Tribunals,  or  "Mixed  Courts,"  in  the 
control  of  which  Egypt  has  almost  nothing  to  say,  giv- 
ing them  complete  jurisdiction  in  all  civil  cases  in  which 
aliens  may  be  involved  with  each  other  or  with  Egyp- 
tians, while  the  foreign  consuls  possess  absolute  author- 
ity in  criminal  cases  where  their  nationals  are  concerned. 
The  Capitulations,  many  of  which  date  back  to  the 
early  days  of  Turkish  power,  are  nothing  less  than  guar- 
antees to  foreigners  within  the  Ottoman  dominions  of 
full  and  complete  immunity  from  the  laws  governing 
Turkish  subjects.  No  reciprocal  obligation  was  con- 
stituted by  a  Capitulation  (which,  by  the  way,  means 
the  instrument  containing  the  terms  of  an  agreement), 
as  it  was  intended  to  be  a  purely  gratuitous  concession 
granted  to  Christians,  by  virtue  of  which  they  were 
tolerated  upon  the  soil  of  Islam.  Though  the  Capitula- 
tions were  never  regarded  by  the  Turks  as  treaties — 
it  being  obvious  that  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful, 
who  is  likewise  the  Successor  of  the  Prophet  and  the 
Shadow  of  Allah,  could  never  treat  a  Christian  ruler  as 
an  equal — they  have  all  the  character  and  force  of 
treaties  nevertheless,  inviolability  of  domicile,  freedom 
from  taxation  of  every  sort,  and  immunity  from  arrest 
for  any  offence  whatsoever  being  but  items  in  the  com- 
prehensive promise  not  to  molest  the  foreigner.  In 
short,  the  Capitulations  give  to  the  nations  possessing 
them  as  complete  jurisdiction  over  their  citizens  as 

"3 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

they  exercise  at  home,  the  Egyptian  Government  being 
powerless  to  lay  so  much  as  a  finger  on  a  foreigner  who 
breaks  its  laws. 

Should  an  American  sailor,  for  example,  become  in- 
volved in  a  drunken  affray,  as  sometimes  happens,  and 
wound  or  kill  an  Egyptian,  the  Egyptian  police  would 
no  more  arrest  him  than  they  would  the  Khedive. 
They  would  merely  keep  him  under  surveillance,  mean- 
while notifying  the  American  consul,  who  would  de- 
spatch his  kavasses,  as  the  armed  guards  which  are  at- 
tached— also  by  virtue  of  the  Capitulations — to  the 
various  consulates  are  called,  to  effect  the  man's  ar- 
rest. He  would  then  be  tried  by  the  consul,  who  pos- 
sesses magisterial  powers,  before  a  jury  drawn  from 
American  residents  or  tourists,  and,  if  found  guilty, 
would  be  confined  in  one  of  the  several  consular  prisons 
which  the  United  States  maintains  in  the  Turkish  Em- 
pire, although,  if  the  sentence  were  a  long  one,  he  would 
probably  be  sent  to  a  prison  in  this  country  to  serve 
it  out. 

Though  the  Egyptian  police  may  be  perfectly  aware 
that  Georgios  Miltiades  runs  a  roulette  game  in  the 
back  room  of  his  cafe,  and  keeps  a  disorderly  house  up- 
stairs, he  can  lounge  in  his  doorway  and  jeer  at  them 
with  perfect  safety  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  is  a 
Greek  subject,  and  therefore  his  cafe  is  as  much  on 
Greek  soil  as  though  it  were  in  the  Odos  Ammonia  in 
Athens,  his  consul  alone  possessing  the  right  to  enter  it, 
to  cause  his  arrest,  and  to  inflict  imprisonment  or  fine. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  importation  cf 
114 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

hasheesh  into  Egypt  is  strictly  prohibited,  the  govern- 
ment making  every  effort  to  stamp  out  its  use  by  the 
natives,  the  Italian  smuggler  who  drops  anchor  in 
Alexandria  harbour  with  a  cargo  of  it  aboard  knows  per- 
fectly well  that  the  arm  of  the  Egyptian  law  is  not  long 
enough  to  reach  him.  If,  however,  he  is  caught  by  the 
local  police  in  the  act  of  taking  the  contraband  ashore, 
it  will  be  confiscated,  though  he  himself  can  be  arrested 
and  punished  only  by  the  Italian  consular  official  resi- 
dent at  that  port. 

As  a  result  of  the  privileges  granted  to  foreigners 
by  the  Capitulations,  the  consuls  stationed  in  Egypt,  as 
well  as  in  other  parts  of  the  Turkish  Empire,  are  vir- 
tually the  governors  of  their  respective  colonies,  pos- 
sessing powers  which  cause  their  wishes  to  be  respected 
and  their  orders  obeyed.  They  are  expected  to  keep  a 
watchful  eye  on  the  doings  of  their  nationals,  especially 
those  who  keep  saloons,  dance-halls,  or  cafes;  to  settle, 
either  in  or  out  of  court,  their  quarrels  and  even  their 
domestic  disputes;  to  inspect  the  sanitary  condition  of 
their  houses;  to  perform  the  marriage  service  for  those 
who  prefer  a  civil  to  a  religious  ceremony;  and  to 
attend  to  their  burial  and  the  administration  of  their 
estates  when  they  die.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add 
that,  as  a  result  of  this  anomalous  state  of  affairs,  there 
is  constant  friction  and  frequent  conflicts  of  authority 
between  the  foreign  consuls  and  the  local  authorities. 
So  jealously,  indeed,  do  the  foreign  powers  guard  the 
privileges  conferred  upon  them  by  the  Capitulations, 
that  Cairo  can  have  no  modern  drainage  system  because 

"5 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

certain  of  the  European  governments  refuse  to  give  the 
Egyptian  sanitary  inspectors  permission  to  enter  the 
houses  of  their  subjects. 

In  matters  of  personal  law,  such  as  marriage,  di- 
vorce, guardianship,  succession,  and  the  like,  foreigners 
are,  in  general,  subject  to  their  own  patriarchs  or  other 
religious  heads,  while  similar  questions  are  decided  for 
the  natives  by  the  native  courts  known  as  Mehkemmehs, 
which  are  presided  over  by  the  Cadis.  In  other  matters 
Egyptians  are  justiciable  before  the  ordinary  native 
tribunals,  which  now  consist  of  forty-six  summary 
courts  having  civil  jurisdiction  in  matters  up  to  two 
thousand  five  hundred  dollars  in  value  and  criminal 
jurisdiction  in  offences  punishable  by  a  fine  or  by  im- 
prisonment up  to  three  years;  seven  central  tribunals, 
each  of  the  chambers  of  which  consists  of  three  judges; 
and  a  court  of  appeals  at  Cairo,  about  half  of  whose 
members  are  European.  Since  its  reorganisation,  the 
native  Egyptian  bench  has  won  an  enviable  record  for 
honesty,  energy,  and  efficiency,  and  would,  if  granted 
complete  jurisdictional  powers,  prove  a  great  influence 
for  good  in  the  land. 

So  far  as  the  Khedive  is  concerned,  he  has  about  as 
much  to  say  in  the  direction  of  the  government  as  the 
child  Emperor  of  China  had  before  the  revolution  put  a 
president  in  his  stead.  Not  only  is  Abbas  Hilmi  sur- 
rounded by  English  secretaries  and  advisers,  without 
whose  permission  he  may  scarcely  change  his  mind, 
but  he  is  compelled  to  yield  to  England  even  in  choos- 
ing the  members  of  his  ministry,  the  one  or  two  attempts 

116 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

which  he  has  made  to  assert  his  right  to  independence 
of  action  in  this  respect  having  been  met  by  England 
with  a  military  demonstration  in  the  streets  of  his  capi- 
tal which  was  not  abated  until  the  office  was  filled  by 
an  Egyptian  satisfactory  to  the  British  Consul- General. 

Some  years  ago,  when  that  grim  old  statesman, 
Lord  Cromer,  was  still  deus  ex  machina  in  Egypt,  the 
Khedive,  emboldened  by  the  rapid  spread  of  the  Na- 
tionalist movement,  which  has  for  its  slogan  "Egypt 
for  the  Egyptians!"  flatly  declined  to  give  a  cabinet 
portfolio  to  a  certain  Egyptian  politician  whose  appoint- 
ment had  been  urged  by  the  British  Consul-General  and 
who  was  notoriously  a  British  tool.  The  following 
morning  Lord  Cromer  drove  to  the  Abdin  Palace  and 
demanded  an  audience  with  the  Khedive.  There  were 
no  euphemisms  employed  in  the  interview  which  en- 
sued. 

"I  have  come  to  obtain  your  Highness's  signature 
to  this  decree,"  announced  Lord  Cromer,  in  the  blunt 
and  aggressive  manner  so  characteristic  of  him. 

"Suppose,  my  lord,"  the  Khedive  asked  quietly, 
"that  I  decline  to  make  an  appointment  which  is  not 
for  the  good  of  Egypt — what  then?" 

"Then,  your  Highness,"  said  Cromer  menacingly, 
"Ceylon." 

"But  suppose,  my  lord,"  Abbas  Hilmi  again  in- 
quired, his  face  pale  with  anger,  "that  I  disregard  your 
threat  to  exile  me  to  Ceylon  and  still  refuse  to  sign  this 
commission?  " 

Lord  Cromer  strode  across  the  room  to  a  window 
117 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

which  commanded  a  view  of  Abdin  Square  and  threw 
back  the  curtain.  "Will  your  Highness  look  out  of 
this  window  before  you  give  me  a  final  answer?"  he 
asked. 

The  Khedive  stepped  to  the  window  and  looked 
down.  There,  drawn  up  in  motionless  ranks  which 
stretched  from  end  to  end  of  the  great  square,  was  a 
brigade  of  British  infantry,  the  Egyptian  sun  blazing 
down  on  the  rows  of  brown  helmets,  on  the  business-like 
uniforms  of  khaki,  and  on  the  slanting  lines  of  steel. 
For  five  full  minutes  Abbas  Hilmi  stood  in  silence, 
looking  down  on  that  grim  display  of  power.  Then  he 
turned  slowly  to  Lord  Cromer.  "Give  me  the  pen," 
he  said. 

Here  is  another  example  of  the  harshness  of  the 
attitude  which  England  has  seen  fit  to  adopt  in  her 
dealings  with  the  Egyptian  sovereign.  In  the  days 
when  Lord  Kitchener,  fresh  from  his  triumphs  in 
the  Sudan,  was  still  Sirdar  of  the  Egyptian  army,  the 
Khedive  announced  that  he  would  utilise  the  occasion 
of  his  approaching  visit  to  Khartoum  to  review  the 
troops  of  the  garrison.  For  hours  the  sinewy,  brown- 
faced  soldiery  marched  and  countermarched  before  the 
Khedive  on  the  field  of  Omdurman.  The  infantry  in 
their  sand-coloured  uniforms  swept  by  with  the  swing 
of  veterans;  the  field  batteries — the  same  that  had 
mown  down  the  Mahdi's  fanatic  tribesmen — rumbled 
by  at  a  gallop;  the  camel  corps,  the  riders  swaying  on 
their  strange  mounts  like  vessels  in  a  gale,  paced  past; 

then  the  cavalry  came,  as  fast  as  the  horses  could  lay 

118 


The  real  ruler  of  Egypt,  His  Excellency  Field  Marshal  Lord  Kitchener  of  Khartoum,  British  Agent  and 
Consul-General  in  Egypt,  inspecting  a  guard  of  honour  upon  his  recent  visit  to  the  battle-field  cf 
Omdurman. 


"Riflemen  made  from  mud."     A  march  past  of  Sudanese  infantry. 
THE  SAVIOUR  OF  THE  SUDAN  AND  SOME  OF  THOSE  HE  SAVED. 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

foot  to  ground,  lances  levelled,  the  troopers  cheering 
like  madmen,  thundering  past  the  reviewing  party  in  a 
whirlwind  of  colour  and  dust  and  noise.  It  was  a  fine 
exhibition  and  one  of  which  any  commanding  officer 
might  well  have  been  proud,  but  the  Khedive  had  re- 
ceived his  military  education  in  Austria,  where  faultless 
alignment  and  the  ability  to  execute  intricate  parade 
movements  are  reckoned  among  the  first  requisites  of 
a  soldier;  so  when  Lord  Kitchener,  the  conqueror  of  the 
Sudan  and  the  maker  of  the  Egyptian  army,  reined  up 
his  charger  before  him,  saluted,  and  perfunctorily  asked, 
"I  trust  that  your  Highness  is  satisfied  with  the  dis- 
cipline and  appearance  of  your  forces?"  Abbas  Hilmi, 
probably  as  much  from  a  spirit  of  hostility  to  the  Eng- 
lish as  for  any  other  reason,  answered  in  a  voice  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  all  around  him,  "They  are  a  fine 
body  of  men,  Lord  Kitchener,  but  I  am  far  from  satis- 
fied with  their  discipline. "  Officers  who  witnessed  this 
incident  have  told  me  that  Lord  Kitchener  was  as 
amazed  as  though  he  had  received  a  slap  in  the  face. 
Within  an  hour  his  resignation  as  Sirdar  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  Khedive,  who  as  promptly  accepted  it. 
But  England  could  never  permit  her  foremost  soldier 
to  be  so  wantonly  and  so  publicly  affronted,  for  to  do 
so  would  be  dangerously  to  impair  her  prestige  among  all 
classes  of  Egyptians.  So  the  cable  flashed  a  message 
from  Downing  Street  to  the  British  Agency  in  Cairo  and 
a  few  hours  later  the  Khedive  was  peremptorily  in- 
formed that  he  could  choose  between  apologising  to 
Lord  Kitchener  and  requesting  him  to  withdraw  his 

119 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

resignation  or  of  abdicating  in  favour  of  his  brother. 
Appreciating  that  it  was  wiser  to  apologise  and  keep  his 
throne  than  to  remain  stubborn  and  lose  it,  Abbas  Hilmi 
requested  Kitchener  to  remain  on  as  Sirdar — and  he 
himself  remained  on  as  Khedive. 

The  men  who  really  transact  the  business  of  the 
Egyptian  Government  are  not  the  holders  of  cabinet 
portfolios,  but  the  departmental  under-secretaries,  all  of 
whom  are  English,  their  plans  being  perfunctorily  sub- 
mitted to  their  Egyptian  chiefs  for  their  approval, 
though  they  would  be  used  whether  they  received  it 
or  not.  The  national  revenues  and  expenditures  are 
controlled  by  an  English  financial  adviser,  without 
whose  permission  the  Khedive  and  his  ministers  cannot 
spend  so  much  as  a  piastre  of  government  funds.  Simi- 
larly, the  ministries  of  the  interior,  of  justice,  of  com- 
munications, and  of  agriculture  are  dictated  by  English 
"advisers."  For  upward  of  thirty  years,  in  fact,  the 
Nile  country  has  been  more  absolutely  governed  from 
London  than  has  India,  or  Canada,  or  Australia,  or 
South  Africa,  or  any  of  the  Crown  colonies,  and  this  de- 
spite the  fact  that  between  England  and  Egypt  there  is 
no  tie  that  is  officially  recognised  by  any  foreign  power. 
Now,  thirty  years  is  a  considerable  lapse  of  time  any- 
where, particularly  in  the  East,  where  men  mature 
rapidly,  so  that  those  who  were  children  when  the  Brit- 
ish came  are  in  the  prime  of  life  now.  The  fact  that 
in  that  interim  England  has  had  ample  time  to  train 
them  for  the  duties  of  governmental  administration,  as 
witness  what  we  have  accomplished  among  the  Filipinos 

1 20 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

in  less  than  half  that  time,  but  that  she  has  made  little, 
if  any,  effort  to  do  so,  is  quite  naturally  taken  by  all 
thinking  Egyptians  as  a  proof  that  there  is  no  sincerity 
back  of  her  repeated  assertions  that  she  intends  to  turn 
Egypt  over  to  them  as  soon  as  they  are  fitted  to  admin- 
ister it.  In  fact,  I  have  heard  responsible  British  offi- 
cials assert  that,  to  their  way  of  thinking,  the  natives 
were  getting  altogether  too  much  education  as  it  was, 
and  that  the  less  they  were  taught  to  think  the  easier  it 
would  be  for  England  to  hold  the  country.  Frankly 
stated,  England's  attitude  toward  the  Egyptians  has 
been  "You  cannot  go  near  the  water  until  you  know 
how  to  swim." 

Let  it  be  perfectly  clear,  however,  that  nothing 
is  farther  from  my  intention  than  to  intimate  that 
British  rule  has  not  been  beneficial  to  Egypt.  No  fair- 
minded  person  who  was  familiar  with  the  appalling  con- 
dition of  the  country  and  its  people  before  the  English 
came,  and  with  their  present  state  of  prosperity,  would 
cast  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  on  the  wonderful 
improvement  which  has  been  brought  about.  The 
story  of  Egypt's  rise  from  practical  bankruptcy  until 
its  securities  are  now  quoted  nearly  as  high  as  English 
consols  reads  like  a  romance  of  the  gold  fields.  During 
the  last  few  years  the  country  has  been  experiencing  a 
land  boom  equal  to  that  of  southern  California,  prop- 
erty in  Alexandria  having  sold  at  the  rate  of  one  hun- 
dred dollars  a  square  yard;  scientific  irrigation,  com- 
bined with  the  completion  of  the  great  dam  at  Assuan, 
has  enormously  enlarged  the  area  of  cultivation  and 

121 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

has  made  Egypt  the  second  greatest  cotton-producing 
country  in  the  world;  the  national  debt  has  been  ma- 
terially reduced;  and,  most  significant  of  all,  Egypt's 
European  bondholders  have  consented  to  have  the  in- 
terest on  their  bonds  reduced  from  seven  to  three  and 
a  half  per  cent.  Life  and  property  have  been  made  as 
safe  in  Port  Said  and  Zagazig  and  the  Fayoum  as  they 
are  in  Yonkers  or  Salem  or  New  Rochelle;  slavery  has 
been  abolished;  official  corruption  has  been  rooted  out; 
forced  labour  for  public  works  is  no  longer  permitted; 
an  admirable  system  of  railways  brings  the  entire  cul- 
tivated area  within  reach  of  the  coast;  hospitals  have 
been  established  in  all  of  the  larger  towns;  while  every 
phase  of  the  public  health  has  been  so  closely  watched 
that  the  population  of  the  country  has  actually  doubled 
in  the  thirty  years  since  the  English  came. 

To  my  way  of  thinking,  the  most  interesting  chap- 
ter in  the  history  of  present-day  Egypt  is  that  which 
records  the  development  of  scientific  irrigation.  North- 
east Africa  being  practically  rainless,  its  sole  source  of 
water  supply  is  the  Nile,  this  mighty  river  created  by 
torrential  rains  in  the  mountains  of  Abyssinia  and  by 
the  overflow  of  equatorial  lakes,  and  which  is  without 
tributaries  in  Egypt  proper,  having  an  overflow  which 
varies  with  the  seasons.  For  four  months  the  flood 
rushing  seaward,  which  is  known  as  "high  Nile,"  en- 
riches hundreds  of  square  miles  of  what  would  other- 
wise be  arid  and  worthless  land.  Then  come  eight 
months  of  low  Nile,  which,  were  it  not  for  the  genius 
of  an  English  engineer,  would  mean  unwatered  fields, 

122 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

scanty  crops,  and  probably  famine.  The  British  ad- 
ministrators, appreciating  from  the  very  outset  that 
Egypt's  entire  future  depended  upon  its  agricultural 
prosperity,  and  that  this,  in  turn,  depended  upon  the 
fellaheen  having  an  ample  and  steady  supply  of  water 
for  their  farms,  set  their  engineers  at  the  task  of  devis- 
ing some  scheme  for  compelling  the  great  river  to  pay 
tribute  to  the  land  through  which  it  passed  instead 
of  wasting  its  fertilising  waters  in  the  Mediterranean. 
Hence  the  great  barrage  at  Assuan,  suggested  by  Sir 
William  Willcocks,  designed  by  Sir  Benjamin  Baker, 
built  by  Sir  John  Aird,  and  financed  by  Sir  Ernest 
Cassel.  A  mile  and  a  quarter  long,  containing  a  mil- 
lion tons  of  stone  and  creating  a  reservoir  three  times 
the  area  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  this  titanic  barrier  per- 
mits the  additional  irrigation  of  one  million  six  hundred 
thousand  acres  of  land.  Though  its  cost  was  twelve 
million  five  hundred  thousand  dollars,  it  has  already 
increased  the  earning  power  of  Egypt  fully  thirteen 
million  dollars  annually,  so  it  will  be  seen  that  it  more 
than  pays  for  itself  to  the  country  every  twelvemonth. 
The  systematic  liberation,  during  the  burning  summer 
months,  of  the  water  thus  conserved,  means  unfailing 
prosperity  for  Egypt,  for  it  is  almost  unbelievable,  to 
one  who  has  not  seen  it  with  his  own  eyes,  what  agri- 
cultural magic  water  can  work  in  this  naturally  fertile 
soil.  As  the  regions  capable  of  responding  to  irrigation 
are  almost  boundless,  and  as  the  water  supply  is  almost 
inexhaustible,  and  as  the  engineers — and,  what  is  far 
more  important,  the  financiers — have  come  to  appreci- 

123 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

ate  that  the  pregnant  soil  can  be  made  to  pay  for  the 
cost  of  any  reservoir,  or  series  of  reservoirs,  which  they 
may  construct,  it  is  only  reasonable  to  assume  that  the 
great  dam  at  Assuan  is  but  the  forerunner  of  many 
others,  so  that  eventually  the  Valley  of  the  Nile  will  be 
white  with  cotton  and  yellow  with  grain  from  the  Delta 
to  the  Sudd. 

But  if  Upper  Egypt  suffers  from  being  too  dry. 
Lower  Egypt  suffers  from  being  too  wet.  The  pros- 
perity of  the  country,  remember,  depends  almost  en- 
tirely upon  its  cotton  crop,  which  has  an  approximate 
value  of  one  hundred  million  dollars  annually,  the 
cotton  fields  covering  some  one  million  six  hundred 
thousand  acres,  most  of  which  are  in  the  Delta.  That 
this  source  of  revenue  may  be  increased,  the  Egyptian 
Government  has  recently  undertaken  a  huge  drainage 
project,  which  will,  it  is  estimated,  when  completed  in 
1 91 5,  redeem  a  great  tract  of  flooded  and  hitherto 
worthless  land,  bringing  a  million  additional  acres  under 
cultivation,  almost  doubling  the  production  of  cotton^ 
and,  incidentally,  draining  Lake  Mariout,  that  historic 
body  of  water  disappearing  forever. 

Agriculture  and  its  attendant  problems  of  irriga- 
tion and  fertilisation  constitute  the  sole  hobby  and 
amusement  of  the  present  Khedive,  Abbas  Hilmi  II, 
and,  consequently,  he  is  keenly  interested  in  anything 
that  pertains  to  it,  being  a  ready  and  liberal  purchaser 
of  all  improved  types  of  agricultural  machinery,  which 
he  puts  to  practical  use  on  the  great  estates  which  he 

owns  near  Alexandria,  in  the  Delta,  and  in  the  Western 

124 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AXD-AFTER 

Desert.  It  so  happened  that,  while  I  was  the  consular 
representative  of  the  United  States  at  Alexandria,  I  re- 
ceived a  call  one  morning  from  the  president  of  an  .Amer- 
ican concern  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  agricultural 
and  well-drilling  machinery  who  explained  that  he  was 
passing  through  Egypt  and  asked  if  it  would  be  possible 
for  me  to  obtain  him  an  audience  with  the  Khedive. 
The  request  was  duly  transmitted  to  the  Grand  Master 
of  Ceremonies,  and  shortly  thereafter  a  reply  reached 
me  naming  the  day  and  hour  when  his  Highness  would 
receive  my  compatriot  and  myself  at  the  palace  of 
Ras-el-Tin.  Frock-coated  and  top-hatted,  we  drove  to 
the  palace  on  the  day  appointed,  were  received  by  the 
officials  of  the  khedivial  household,  and  shown  into 
the  salle  de  reception,  where  Abbas  Hilmi  stood  awaiting 
us.  After  a  cordial  greeting — for  the  Khedive  makes 
no  secret  of  his  liking  for  Americans — he  drew  me  down 
beside  him  on  a  small  sofa,  motioning  my  companion 
to  take  a  chair  opposite  us. 

"It  gives  me  particular  pleasure,"  I  began,  "to 

present  Mr.  K to  your  Highness,  particularly  as 

he  is  an  authority  on  agricultural  machinery — a  subject 
in  which  your  Highness  is,  I  know,  considerably  in- 
terested. " 

"  Say,  Khedive, "  exclaimed  my  f  eHow-countryman, 
suddenly  leaning  forward  and  emphasising  even-  sen- 
tence by  waggling  his  finger  under  Abbas  Hilmi's  au- 
gust nose,  "I've  got  the  niftiest  little  proposition  in 
well-drilling  machinery  that  ever  struck  this  burg,  and 
if  you  don't  jump  at  a  chance  to  get  in  on  the  ground 

125 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

floor,  then  all  I've  got  to  say  is  that  you're  throwing 
away  the  chance  of  your  lifetime. " 

The  Khedive,  being,  naturally,  quite  unaccustomed 
to  this  form  of  verbal  assault  and  still  more  unaccus- 
tomed to  having  any  one  waggle  a  finger  under  his 
nose,  at  first  drew  back  haughtily;  then  the  humour 
of  the  situation  dawned  upon  him,  and,  as  the  river 
of  talk  which  is  one  of  the  chief  assets  of  the  trained 
American  salesman  flowed  steadily  on,  he  became  inter- 
ested in  spite  of  himself,  now  and  then  interjecting  a 
pertinent  question,  and  terminating  the  audience  by 
giving  the  American  an  order  for  several  thousand  dol- 
lars' worth  of  American  machinery,  which,  the  last  I 
heard  of  it,  was  giving  excellent  satisfaction  on  the 
royal  farms. 

If  it  is  difficult  to  fix  the  exact  legal  status  of  Egypt, 
it  is  still  more  difficult  to  explain  that  of  the  Sudan, 
which  is  described  in  the  official  blue-books  as  "an 
Anglo-Egyptian  condominium."  Until  1882  the  Sudan 
was  as  much  a  part  of  Egypt  proper  as  Florida  is  a  part 
of  the  United  States,  but  in  that  year  Egyptian  rule  was 
interrupted  by  the  revolt  of  the  Mahdi,  who,  with  his 
successor  the  Khalifa,  held  the  country  for  sixteen  years 
under  a  bloody  and  desolating  tyranny.  In  1896  an 
Anglo-Egyptian  army  under  Sir  Herbert  Kitchener  be- 
gan operations  for  the  recovery  of  the  lost  provinces, 
and,  on  September  2,  1898,  the  overthrow  of  the  Der- 
vish power  was  completed  on  the  battle-field  of  Omdur- 
man.    In  the  following  year  the  pleasing  farce  was  pre- 

126 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

sented  of  a  convention  being  signed  by  the  British  and 
Egyptian  Governments  (or,  in  other  words,  by  Lord 
Cromer  as  the  representative  of  England  in  Egypt  and 
by  Lord  Cromer  as  the  virtual  dictator  of  Egypt)  which 
provides  for  the  administration  of  the  territory  south 
of  the  twenty-second  parallel  of  latitude  by  a  governor- 
general  appointed  by  Egypt  with  the  assent  of  England; 
and  which  declares  that  the  British  and  Egyptian  flags 
shall  be  used  together;  that  laws  shall  be  made  by  proc- 
lamation; that  no  duties  shall  be  levied  on  imports 
from  Egypt;  and  that  slavery  is  prohibited.  In  view 
of  England's  absolute  domination  of  Egypt,  it  is  obvi- 
ous that  the  term  "condominium,"  as  applied  to  the 
Sudan,  is  a  euphemism  for  "British  possession,"  and 
that  England  controls  this  great  region  as  completely  as 
though  her  flag  alone  flew  over  it  and  King  George's 
picture  ornamented  its  stamps. 

The  name  Sudan  is  short  for  Beled-es-Sudan,  which 
means  the  Land  of  the  Blacks.  Extending  from  the 
southern  frontier  of  Egypt  to  Uganda,  a  distance  equal 
to  that  from  Saint  Paul  to  New  Orleans,  and  from  the 
shores  of  the  Red  Sea  to  the  confines  of  the  great  central 
African  kingdom  of  Wadai,  or  as  far  as  from  Chicago  to 
Denver,  the  Sudan  boasts  an  area  three  times  that  of 
Texas.  This  area,  prior  to  the  Dervish  oppression,  had 
a  population  estimated  at  eight  and  a  half  millions,  but, 
as  a  result  of  the  wholesale  massacres  perpetrated  by 
the  Mahdi  and  his  followers,  it  has  to-day  less  than  two 
and  a  half  millions.  Since  the  return  of  peace,  however, 
the  Sudan  is  gradually  recovering  from  the  effects  of  the 

127 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Dervishes'  barbaric  rule,  during  which  the  whole  coun- 
try was  depopulated,  wide  tracts  of  land  went  out  of 
cultivation,  and  trade  was  largely  abandoned. 

At  present  the  poverty,  the  scanty  population,  and 
the  lack  of  irrigation  in  the  Sudan  form  a  striking  con- 
trast to  the  wealth,  the  density  of  population,  and  the 
high  state  of  cultivation  found  in  Egypt.  But,  though 
it  has  been,  until  very  recently,  little  better  than  an 
abandoned  estate,  with  practically  no  market  value, 
the  money  and  labour  which  its  British  proprietors  are 
expending  upon  it  are  already  beginning  to  produce 
highly  promising  results.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  agri- 
cultural resources  of  this  inland  empire  are  hardly 
guessed  at,  for  the  fact  is  too  apt  to  be  overlooked  that, 
beyond  the  sandy  deserts  which  guard  its  northern 
frontier,  there  exist  extensive  and  fertile  regions  which, 
in  the  provinces  of  Gezire  and  Sennar  alone,  are  esti- 
mated at  fifteen  millions  of  acres.  Added  to  this,  the 
Sudan  is  particularly  fortunate  in  possessing,  in  the  Blue 
and  the  White  Nile,  two  great  waterways  which  are 
destined  to  prove  invaluable  as  mediums  of  fertilisation 
and  transportation.  There  is,  indeed,  no  room  for 
doubt  that  the  Sudan  is  destined  to  be  in  time  a  great 
agricultural  centre,  for  cotton,  wheat,  and  sugar-cane 
are  staple  and  give  every  promise  of  prolific  crops — 
many  English  experts  prophesying  that,  when  provided 
with  facilities  for  irrigation,  it  will  supplant  the  United 
States  as  the  chief  cotton-growing  country  of  the  world 
— while,  farther  afield,  there  are  excellent  cattle  ranges 
and  untold  wealth  in  forest  lands.    But  although  much 

128 


Fighting-men  of  the  Emir  of  Wadai.  ("They  are  wearing  helmets  and  chain  mail  captured  by  their 
Saracenic  ancestors  from  the  Crusaders.  The  quilted  armour  on  the  horses  will  turn  anything 
short  of  a  bullet.") 


A  gift  from  Ali  Dinar,  Sultan  of  Darfur,  to  the  Sirdar  of  the  Sudan.     (The  Sultan  of  Darfur  is  a  semi- 
independent  and  powerful  native  ruler  of  the  Southwestern  Sudan.) 


STRANGE  PEOPLE  FROM  INNERMOST  AFRICA. 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

money  has  already  been  spent  upon  the  Sudan,  much 
more  will  have  to  be  spent  before  it  can  have  more  than 
a  speaking  acquaintance  with  prosperity,  for  none  of  its 
three  great  needs — population,  irrigation,  and  trans- 
portation— can  be  provided  for  nothing  or  in  a  hurry. 
I  was  told  so  repeatedly  by  people  in  other  and 
more  favoured  parts  of  Africa  that  the  Sudan  was  noth- 
ing but  a  waste  of  sun-scorched  sand,  that  I  went  there 
as  much  to  see  if  the  description  were  a  true  one  as  for 
any  other  reason.  You  don't  have  to  search  for  romance 
in  the  Sudan;  it's  there  waiting  for  you  when  you  ar- 
rive. It  met  me  on  the  station  platform  at  Wady 
Haifa,  which  is  the  first  town  across  the  Sudanese 
frontier,  in  the  form  of  a  fair-haired,  moon-faced,  khaki- 
clad  guard  on  the  Khartoum  express,  who  spurned  the 
tip  I  proffered  him  to  secure  a  compartment  to  myself 
as  insolently  as  the  poor  but  virtuous  heroine  of  the 
melodrama  spurns  the  villain's  gold.  He  drew  back  as 
though  the  silver  I  offered  him  were  a  rattlesnake  in 
working  order  and  his  face  flushed  a  dull  brick-red; 
then,  bowing  stiffly  from  the  waist,  as  a  Prussian  officer 
does  when  he  is  introduced,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and 
strode  away.  "I  say,  you  got  the  wrong  one  that  time, 
old  chap,"  remarked  an  Englishman  who  had  witnessed 
the  little  incident  and  who,  judging  from  his  pith  hel- 
met and  riding-breeches,  was  of  the  country.  "You 
probably  didn't  know  that  you  were  offering  a  tip  to  a 
former  captain  in  his  German  Majesty's  garde  du 
corps  ?"    I  remarked  that  a  month  before  a  former 

general  of  division  of  the  Bey  of  Tunis  had  accepted 

129 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

with  marked  gratitude  a  tip  not  half  so  large  for  show- 
ing me  through  the  Palace  of  the  Bardo. 

"Well,  this  Johnnie  won't,"  was  the  reply.  "He 
may  not  have  much  money,  but  he's  loaded  to  the  gun- 
wales with  pride.  The  story  of  his  career  sounds  as  if 
it  had  served  as  a  model  for  one  of  Ouida's  novels.  Re- 
fused to  marry  the  girl  his  parents  had  picked  out  for 
him,  so  his  father  cut  off  his  allowance  and  left  him  to 
shift  for  himself.  He  sent  in  his  papers,  went  to  Alge- 
ria, and  enlisted — of  all  fool  things! — in  that  regiment  of 
earth's  hard  cases  called  the  Foreign  Legion.  It  didn't 
take  him  long  to  get  all  he  wanted  of  that  kind  of  sol- 
diering, so  one  day,  when  he  was  sent  down  to  Oran  in 
charge  of  a  prisoner,  he  swam  out  to  a  British  steamer 
lying  in  the  harbour,  worked  his  passage  to  Alexandria, 
enlisted  in  a  British  cavalry  regiment,  took  part  in 
Kitchener's  campaign  against  the  Khalifa,  was  wounded 
in  the  shindy  at  Omdurman,  and  retired  on  a  pension. 
Now  he  wears  a  guard's  uniform  and  carries  a  green 
flag  and  walks  up  and  down  the  platform  shouting  '  All 
aboard  for  Khartoum! '  And  at  home  he  would  have  a 
coronet  on  his  visiting-cards  and  spend  his  afternoons 
swaggering  along  Unter  den  Linden.  Extraordinary 
what  a  man  will  do  if  he  has  to,  isn't  it?  But  you'll  find 
lots  more  of  the  same  kind  in  the  Sudan.  It's  no  place 
for  idlers  down  here;  every  one  works  or  gets  out." 

That  struck  me  as  a  pretty  promising  introduction 
to  a  country  which,  so  I  had  been  assured  elsewhere, 
had  nothing  more  interesting  to  recommend  it  than  sun 
and  sand,  and  it  was  with  a  marked  rise  in  my  antici- 

130 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

pations  that  I  saw  my  luggage  stowed  away  in  a  com- 
partment of  one  of  the  long  railway  carriages,  which 
are  painted  white  for  the  same  reason  that  a  man  wears 
a  white  suit  in  the  tropics,  which  have  windows  of  blue 
glass  to  prevent  the  sun-glare  from  injuring  the  passen- 
gers' eyes,  and  which  are  provided  with  both  outside 
and  inside  blinds  in  an  attempt  to  keep  out  a  little  of 
the  heat.  Looked  at  from  any  stand-point  that  you 
please,  the  thirty  hours'  railway  journey  from  Wady 
Haifa  to  Khartoum  is  far  from  being  an  enjoyable  ex- 
perience, for  a  light  in  your  compartment  means  a 
plague  of  flies,  while  any  attempt  to  get  air,  other  than 
that  kicked  up  by  the  electric  fan,  means  suffocating  dust. 
It  being  too  dark  to  read  and  too  hot  to  sleep,  the  only 
alternative  is  to  sit  in  your  pajamas,  swelter,  and  smoke. 
Considering  the  obstacles  it  has  had  to  overcome, 
the  Sudan  government  deserves  great  credit  for  the 
railways  it  has  built  and  the  trains  it  operates.  The 
construction  of  the  railway  to  Khartoum  was  under- 
taken by  General  Kitchener  in  1896,  in  order  to  support 
the  advance  of  his  army,  and,  in  spite  of  the  difficulty 
of  laying  a  railway  line  across  the  sandy  and  stony  sur- 
face of  the  desert,  the  work  was  so  energetically  carried 
on  that  the  line  advanced  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  a  day. 
The  most  serious  obstacle  was,  of  course,  the  provision 
of  an  adequate  supply  of  water  for  the  engines  and  work- 
men, so  a  series  of  watering-stations  was  established, 
at  which  wells,  sunk  to  a  depth  of  eighty  feet  or  more, 
tap  the  subterranean  water.  These  stations  are  so  far 
apart,  however,  that  to  supply  the  engines  it  is  necessary 

131 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

to  attach  two  or  more  tank-cars  to  each  train.  Still 
another  difficulty  is  the  shifting  sand,  which,  during 
the  period  of  the  khamsin,  or  desert  wind,  proves  as  dis- 
astrous to  railroading  in  the  Sudan  as  snow  does  to  the 
railroads  of  our  own  Northwest,  an  inch  of  sand  throw- 
ing an  engine  from  the  rails  far  more  effectually  than  a 
yard  of  snow. 

It  was  my  fortune,  by  the  way,  to  encounter  one  of 
the  huboubs,  or  sand-storms,  for  which  the  Sudan  is 
famous.  To  give  an  adequate  idea  of  it,  however,  is 
as  impossible  as  it  is  to  describe  any  other  overwhelm- 
ing phenomenon  of  nature.  Far  off  across  the  desert 
we  saw  it  approaching  at  the  speed  of  a  galloping  horse — 
a  great  fleecy,  yellowish-brown  cloud  which  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  the  smoke  of  some  gigantic  conflagra- 
tion. A  distant  humming,  which  sounded  at  first  like 
the  drone  of  a  million  sewing-machines,  gradually  rose 
into  such  a  roar  as  might  be  made  by  a  million  motor- 
cars, and  then  the  storm  was  upon  us.  The  sand  poured 
down  as  though  shaken  through  a  sieve;  the  landscape 
was  blotted  out;  the  sun  was  obscured  and  there  came 
a  yellow  darkness,  like  that  of  a  London  fog;  men  and 
animals  threw  themselves,  or  were  hurled,  to  the  ground 
before  the  fury  of  the  wind,  while  a  mantle  of  sand, 
inches  thick,  settled  upon  every  animate  and  inanimate 
thing.  Then  it  was  gone,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come, 
and  we  were  left  dizzy,  bewildered,  blinded,  half- 
strangled,  and  gasping  for  breath,  amid  a  landscape 
which  was  as  completely  shrouded  in  yellow  sand  as  an 
American  countryside  in  winter  is  covered  with  snow. 

132 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND- AFTER 

Under  any  circumstances  a  sand-storm  is  a  disagreeable 
experience,  but  out  on  the  desert,  where  the  traveller's 
life  frequently  depends  upon  the  plainness  of  the  cara- 
van trails,  it  ofttimes  brings  death  in  its  train. 

It  is  a  gratifying  compliment  to  American  mechan- 
ical skill  that  the  running-time  between  Wady  Haifa 
and  Khartoum  has  been  shortened  four  hours  by  the 
recent  adoption  of  American  locomotives,  which  run, 
fittingly  enough,  over  American-made  rails.  In  the 
construction  of  its  trains  the  Sudan  government  has 
avoided  the  irksome  privacy  of  the  European  compart- 
ment car  and  the  unremitting  publicity  of  the  American 
Pullman  by  designing  a  car  which  combines  the  best 
features  of  both.  The  first-class  cars  on  the  Sudanese 
express  trains  contain  a  series  of  coupes,  each  somewhat 
roomier  than  the  drawing-room  in  a  Pullman  sleeper  and 
each  opening  into  a  spacious  corridor  which  runs  the 
length  of  the  car.  For  day  use  there  is  one  long  cush- 
ioned seat  running  crosswise  of  each  compartment, 
which  at  night  forms  the  lower  berth,  the  back  of  the 
seat  swinging  up  on  hinges  to  form  the  upper.  Each 
coupe  is  provided  with  running  water,  a  folding  table, 
two  arm-chairs  of  wicker,  and  an  electric  fan,  without 
which  last,  owing  to  the  almost  incredible  dust  which  a 
train  sets  in  motion,  one  would  all  but  suffocate.  At 
several  stations  along  the  line  are  well-equipped  baths, 
at  which  the  trains  stop  long  enough  for  the  passengers 
hurriedly  to  refresh  themselves. 

The  mention  of  these  railway  baths  recalls  an  in- 
cident which  seems  amusing  enough  to  relate.    I  once 

*33 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

had  as  a  fellow-passenger  on  the  journey  from  Khartoum 
northward  a  red-faced,  white-moustached,  choleric- 
tempered  English  globe-trotter,  who  was  constitution- 
ally opposed  to  the  practice  of  tipping,  which  he  took 
occasion  to  characterise  on  every  possible  occasion  as 
"An  outrage — a  damnable  outrage,  sir!"  Now,  at 
these  wayside  bath  stations  it  has  long  been  the  accepted 
custom  to  give  the  equivalent  of  five  cents  to  the  silent- 
footed  native  who  fills  the  tub,  brings  you  your  soap  and 
towels,  and  brushes  your  garments.  But  this  the  iras- 
cible Englishman,  true  to  his  principles,  refused  to  do, 
still  further  unpopularising  himself  by  loudly  cursing  the 
cleanliness  of  the  tub,  the  warmth  of  the  water,  the 
size  of  the  towels,  and  the  slowness  of  the  Sudanese 
attendant.  Five  minutes  before  the  time  for  the  train 
to  leave  the  whistle  gave  due  warning  and  the  passen- 
gers scrambled  from  the  bath  into  their  clothes,  which 
the  native  attendants  were  accustomed  to  brush  and 
leave  outside  the  bath-room  doors.  Every  one  hurried 
into  his  clothes,  as  I  have  remarked,  except  the  anti- 
tipping  Englishman,  who  almost  choked  with  blasphemy 
when  he  found  that  his  garments  had  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared. Though  a  hasty  search  was  instituted,  not 
a  trace  of  them  could  be  found,  the  impassive  Sudanese 
stolidly  declaring  that  they  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
effendi's  missing  apparel.  The  engine  shrieked  its  final 
warning  and  the  laughing  travellers  piled  aboard — all, 
that  is,  but  the  Englishman,  who  rushed  onto  the  plat- 
form clad  in  a  bath  towel,  only  to  retreat  before  the 
shocked  glances  of  the  women  passengers.    My  last 

i34 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

impression  of  that  God-forsaken,  sun-blistered  bath 
station  in  the  desert  was  the  rapidly  diminishing  sound 
of  his  imprecations  as  he  continued  his  fruitless  search 
for  his  garments.  There  was  no  other  train,  I  should 
add,  for  three  days.  Weeks  later  I  heard  that  his 
clothes  were  eventually  returned  to  him  by  a  native,  ; 
who  said  that  he  had  found  them,  neatly  folded,  un- 
derneath a  near-by  culvert. 

Nowhere  is  the  overpowering  romance  of  the  land 
brought  more  vividly  before  you  than  in  the  dining- 
cars  or  on  the  decks  of  the  river  steamers.  The  tall 
young  Englishman  in  flannels  who  sits  opposite  you  at 
table  remarks  casually  that  he  is  using  a  four  months' 
leave  of  absence  to  go  up  Gondokoro-way  after  elephant, 
and  a  French  marquis  who  is  sitting  near  by,  happening 
to  overhear  the  conversation,  leans  across  to  inquire 
about  the  chances  for  sport  on  the  Abyssinian  frontier. 
"You  can't  go  across  there,  you  know,"  interrupts  a 
bimbashi,  whose  freckled  Irish  face  looks  strangely  out 
of  place  beneath  the  tarboosh  which  denotes  an  officer 
in  the  Egyptian  service.  "The  Hadendowas  are  on 
the  rampage  again  and  the  Sirdar  has  issued  orders  that 
no  one  is  to  be  permitted  to  cross  into  Menelik's  terri- 
tory until  things  have  quieted  down.  There's  no  use 
your  trying  it,  for  the  camel  police  are  jolly  well  cer- 
tain to  turn  you  back. "  The  bearded  man  in  the  ill- 
fitting  clothes,  who  would  be  taken  almost  anywhere 
for  a  commercial  traveller,  is,  you  are  told,  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  big-game  shots  in  the  world,  and  just 
now  is  on  his  way  to  the  Lado  Enclave  in  search  of  a 

*35 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

certain  rare  species  of  antelope  for  the  Berlin  museum. 
The  grizzled  Egyptian  officer  sitting  by  himself — for 
the  British  no  more  mingle  socially  with  the  Egyptians 
than  Americans  do  with  negroes — once  served  under 
Gordon,  as  the  bit  of  faded  blue  ribbon  on  the  breast 
of  his  tunic  denotes;  the  brown-faced  Englishman  in 
riding-clothes,  with  the  wrinkles  about  his  eyes  which 
come  from  staring  out  across  the  sands  under  a  tropic 
sun,  is  a  pasha  and  the  governor  of  a  province  as  large 
as  many  a  European  kingdom,  and  farther  up  the 
line  he  will  get  off  the  train  and  disappear  into  the 
desert  on  one  of  his  periodical  tours  of  inspection, 
perhaps  not  seeing  another  white  face  for  three  months 
or  more.  It  struck  me  that  there  was  something  par- 
ticularly fine  and  manly  and  self-reliant  about  these 
young  Englishmen  who  are  acting  as  policemen  and 
judges  and  administrators  and  agricultural  experts 
rolled  into  one,  out  there  at  the  Back  of  Beyond. 
"It's  only  the  hard  work  that  makes  it  bearable," 
said  one  of  them  in  answer  to  my  question.  "What 
with  the  heat  and  the  flies  and  the  never-ending  vista 
of  yellow  sand  and  the  lack  of  companionship,  we 
should  die  from  sheer  loneliness  if  we  didn't  work  from 
dawn  until  bedtime.  Besides,  every  two  years  we  get 
long  enough  leave  to  go  home."  (And  oh,  the  caress 
in  that  word  home.)  Then  he  asked  me  with  pathetic 
eagerness  about  the  latest  song-hits  at  the  London 
music-halls,  and  was  this  new  Russian  dancer  at  Covent 
Garden  as  wonderful  as  the  illustrated  weeklies  made  her 
out,  and  honestly,  now,  did  I  think  the  government  was 

136 


THE  LAND   OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

going  to  be  such  a  bally  ass  as  to  give  the  Irish  home 
rule?  That  young  man — he  was  twenty-four  on  his 
last  birthday,  he  told  me — has  charge  of  a  province  four 
times  as  large  as  New  York  State,  and  in  it  he  wields  a 
power  which  is  a  strange  cross  between  the  patriarchal 
and  the  despotic.  With  a  score  or  so  of  camel  police  he 
maintains  law  and  order  among  a  population  which, 
until  very  recent  years,  were  as  savage  and  intractable 
as  the  Sioux;  he  holds  the  high  justice,  the  middle,  and 
the  low;  and  he  is,  incidentally,  a  practical  authority  on 
such  varied  subjects  as  wheat-growing,  cotton-raising, 
camel-breeding,  fertilising,  and  irrigation.  Nor  would 
I  fail  to  call  attention  to  the  little-known  but  wonder- 
ful work  of  a  handful  of  British  officers,  who,  working 
continuously  since  1898,  in  those  fever-ridden  swamps 
near  Lake  No,  have  finally  succeeded  in  removing  the 
last  block  of  Sudd,*  twenty-four  miles  long,  thus  making 
the  Nile  a  free,  navigable  waterway  from  Khartoum  to 
Rejaf,  in  Uganda,  a  distance  of  twelve  hundred  miles. 
And  these  young  men,  remember,  are  but  isolated  ex- 
amples of  the  thousands,  in  Africa,  in  Asia,  in  America, 
and  in  Oceanica,  who  are  binding  together  Britain's 
colonial  empire. 

Its  discomforts  notwithstanding,  the  railway  jour- 
ney from  Wady  Haifa  to  Khartoum  is  filled  with  inter- 
est, comparing  not  at  all  unfavourably  with  that  other 
remarkable  desert  journey  by  the  Trans-Caspian  rail- 
way from  Krasnovodsk  to  Samarkand.  For  two  hun- 
dred miles  or  more  after  leaving  Wady  Haifa  we  see 

*  The  name  given  to  the  dense  masses  of  water  plants  which  have 
long  obstructed  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Nile. 

137 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

through  the  blue  glass  of  the  windows  nothing  but  end- 
less wastes  of  black  rocks  and  orange  sand.  Then  the 
desert  gives  place  to  undulating  sand-hills,  and  these  in 
turn  to  clusters  of  dom-palms,  to  fields  of  barley,  to 
conical  acacias,  and  finally  a  fringe  of  palms  announces 
the  proximity  of  the  river.  We  pass  in  turn  Gebel 
Barka,  the  sacred  mountain  of  the  ancient  Egyptians, 
and,  at  its  base,  the  ruins  of  Napata,  once  the  capital 
of  an  Ethiopian  kingdom.  A  few  miles  south  of  Atbara, 
which  is  the  junction  of  the  railway  to  Port  Sudan,  on 
the  Red  Sea,  we  pass  the  so-called  Island  of  Meroe, 
with  its  score  of  pyramids,  beside  which  the  majestic 
monuments  of  Egypt  are  but  the  creations  of  yesterday, 
for  this  region,  remember,  was  the  cradle  of  the  Egyp- 
tian arts  and  sciences.  In  the  settlements  along  the 
banks  we  now  begin  to  see  the  typical  round  straw  huts 
of  Central  Africa,  with  their  pointed  roofs  and  airy  re- 
cubas,  or  porches.  The  peoples  change  with  the  sce- 
nery, the  slender,  tarbooshed  Nubian  giving  way  to  the 
fierce-faced,  shock-headed  Hadendowas,  that  savage 
fighting-clan  who  hold  the  country  between  the  Nile  and 
the  Red  Sea,  and  they,  in  turn,  to  the  Kabbabish  Bed- 
ouins, those  freebooters  of  the  desert,  who,  perched  high 
on  their  lean  white  racing  camels,  were  the  terror  of 
every  caravan  in  the  days  before  the  British  came.  The 
cultivated  patches  become  thicker,  the  signs  of  civilisa- 
tion grow  increasingly  frequent,  the  train  rumbles  across 
a  long  iron  bridge  which  spans  the  river,  and  slowing, 
comes  to  a  halt  before  a  long,  low  station  building  on 
which  is  the  word  "Khartoum." 

Like  another  Phcenix,  Khartoum  has  risen  from  its 
138 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

ashes  on  the  site  of  that  city  which  formed  the  funeral 
pyre  of  the  heroic  Gordon.  The  name — "elephant's 
trunk" — refers  to  the  shape  of  the  long  peninsula  on 
which  the  city  stands  and  which  forms  the  point  of 
separation  of  the  Nile  into  its  Blue  and  White  branches. 
It  is  a  brand-new  city  which  the  British  engineers  have 
constructed;  a  city  with  a  ground  plan  as  mathemat- 
ically laid  out  and  with  streets  as  broad  as  Washing- 
ton; a  city  with  pavements  and  side-walks  and  gutters 
and  sewers  and  lighting  facilities  on  the  most  modern 
lines.  As  all  the  buildings  are  of  a  dust-coloured  brick, 
the  business  portion  of  the  city  has  a  certain  air  of  sub- 
stantial permanence,  but  so  uncompromising  is  the 
architecture  and  so  destitute  of  shade  are  the  streets 
that  it  looks  more  like  a  Russian  penal  settlement  than 
like  an  African  capital.  In  the  residential  quarter, 
however,  the  picturesque  has  not  been  sacrificed  to  the 
utilitarian,  for  along  the  bank  of  the  Blue  Nile  a  splen- 
did boulevard — a  sort  of  African  Riverside  Drive — has 
been  constructed,  and  here  no  business  or  commercial 
trespass  will  be  permitted,  for  from  the  Grand  Hotel  to 
the  Palace,  a  distance  of  a  mile  or  more,  it  is  lined  with 
the  residences  of  the  British  officials,  low-roofed,  broad- 
verandaed  bungalows  nestling  in  luxuriant  gardens. 
The  thing  that  impresses  one  most  about  Khartoum 
is  the  extraordinary  width  of  its  streets  and  diagonal 
avenues  and  the  frequency  of  its  open  circles,  but  the 
British  will  tell  you  quite  frankly  that  military  consider- 
ations, rather  than  beauty,  guided  them  in  planning  it 
and  that  a  few  field-guns,  properly  placed,  can  sweep  the 

139 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

entire  city.  There  are  two  buildings  in  Khartoum  which 
seem  to  me  to  be  more  significant  of  the  new  era  which 
has  begun  for  the  Sudan  than  all  the  other  features  of 
the  city  combined.  One  is  the  Gordon  Memorial  Col- 
lege, built  with  the  object  of  training  the  sons  of  the 
Sudanese  sheikhs  and  chieftains  along  those  lines  which 
are  best  calculated  to  make  for  the  future  peace,  prog- 
ress, and  prosperity  of  the  country.  With  his  laurels  as 
the  victor  of  Omdurman  still  fresh  upon  him,  Lord 
Kitchener  appealed  to  his  countrymen  for  one  hundred 
thousand  pounds  for  the  establishment  of  this  institu- 
tion, which  he  felt  that  England  owed  to  the  memory  of 
Gordon,  and,  so  prompt  and  general  was  the  response, 
the  entire  sum  was  subscribed  within  a  few  days.  The 
other  building  to  which  I  referred  is  the  recently  com- 
pleted Anglican  Cathedral,  which  stands  as  a  recogni- 
tion of  Gordon's  great  work  as  a  missionary  and  as  an 
impressive  exhibition  of  the  advance  of  the  Christian 
faith.  Could  Gordon  have  returned  to  life  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  consecration  of  this  cathedral,  and  have  seen 
harmoniously  gathered  beneath  its  lofty  roof  religious 
dignitaries  of  such  different  minds  and  faiths  as  the 
Bishop  of  London,  the  Coptic  Archbishop  of  Alex- 
andria, the  Greek  Patriarch  of  Abyssinia,  and  the  Grand 
Cadi  and  the  Grand  Mufti,  the  heads  of  the  Mohamme- 
dan community  in  the  Sudan,  he  might  well  have  ex- 
claimed, "I  did  not  die  in  vain." 

I  have  now  sketched  for  you  the  conditions  which 
prevailed  in  the  Valley  of  the  Nile  before  the  English 

140 


THE  LAND  OF  BEFORE-AND-AFTER 

came  and  those  which  obtain  there  to-day.  What 
its  future  is  to  be  depends  wholly  upon  the  action 
of  England.  Were  she  to  leave  the  country  now,  or 
within  the  near  future,  she  would  leave  it  under  condi- 
tions which  would  soon  result  in  chaos,  and  the  good 
that  she  has  done  would  be  largely  lost.  The  extensive 
schemes  of  irrigation  upon  which  she  has  entered,  and 
upon  which  the  prosperity  of  this  whole  region  so  largely 
depends,  could  never  be  financed  by  an  independent 
Egypt,  and  the  same  is  true  of  the  question  of  trans- 
portation, which  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  problems  of 
economic  development  in  the  Sudan. 

That  England's  position  in  the  Nile  country  is 
illegal  and  illogical  her  stanchest  supporters  do  not 
attempt  to  deny,  but  those  who  are  really  familiar  with 
Egyptian  conditions  and  character  will  agree  with  me, 
I  think,  that  Egypt  could  suffer  no  greater  calamity 
than  to  have  the  English  go.  Not  that  I  think  that 
there  is  the  slightest  probability  of  their  doing  so,  for 
Italy's  aggression  in  Tripolitania,  combined  with  the 
attitude  of  the  other  members  of  the  Triple  Alliance, 
has  resulted  in  Britain  strengthening,  rather  than  re- 
laxing, her  grip  on  Egypt  and  the  Suez  Canal.  The 
canal  provides,  indeed,  the  key  to  the  entire  Egyptian 
situation,  for  upon  her  control  of  it  depends  England's 
entire  scheme  of  administration  in  India  and  the  Far- 
ther East.  To  withdraw  her  forces  from  Egypt  would 
be  tantamount  to  leaving  the  gateway  to  her  Eastern 
possessions  unguarded,  and  that,  I  am  convinced,  she 
will  never  do.    Two  lesser,  though  in  themselves  im- 

141 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

portant,  reasons  militate  against  her  surrendering  the 
control  of  the  Valley  of  the  Nile.  One  is  her  hope  of 
eventually  realising,  in  spite  of  German  opposition, 
Cecil  Rhodes's  dream  of  an  "All  Red"  route  from  the 
Cape  to  Cairo,  of  which  Egypt  and  the  Sudan  would  be 
the  northern  links.  The  other  is  the  belief  that  in  the 
scientific  irrigation  and  cultivation  of  the  fertile  Nile 
lands  He  the  means  of  freeing  British  manufacturers 
from  their  dependence  on  American  cotton.  I  am  in- 
clined to  believe,  therefore,  that  in  the  not  far-distant 
future  England  will  become  convinced  that  candour  is 
a  better  policy  than  hypocrisy,  and  will  frankly  add 
to  her  globe-girdling  chain  of  colonial  possessions  the 
whole  of  that  vast  region  lying  between  the  mouths  of 
the  Nile  and  the  swamps  of  the  Sudd. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  ZANZIBAR 

THERE  is  no  name  between  the  covers  of  the  atlas 
more  redolent  of  romance  and  adventure.  Ever 
since  Livingstone  entered  the  African  jungle  on  his 
mission  of  proselytism;  ever  since  Stanley  entered  the 
same  jungle  on  his  quest  of  Livingstone;  and  ever  since 
the  railway-builders  began  to  run  their  levels  and  lay 
their  rails  along  the  trail  blazed  by  them  both,  Zanzi- 
bar has  been  the  chief  gateway  through  which  Chris- 
tianity, civilisation,  and  commerce  have  entered  the 
Dark  Continent.  Though  its  area  has  been  steadily 
lessened  by  spoliation,  treaty,  and  purchase,  until  the 
sultanate,  which  once  extended  from  Cape  Guardafui  to 
Delagoa  Bay  and  inland  to  the  Great  Lakes,  has  dwin- 
dled to  two  coastwise  islands  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  Zanzi- 
bar the  capital  is  still  the  most  important  place,  politi- 
cally and  commercially,  in  all  East  Africa,  and  one  of 
the  most  picturesque  and  interesting  cities  in  the  world. 
It  bears  the  impress  of  the  many  kinds  of  men  of 
many  nationalities — Arab  sultans,  slave-traders  and 
pirates,  Portuguese  merchants,  European  explorers,  and 
ivory-hunters — who  have  swaggered  across  the  pages 
of  its  history.  Four  hundred  years  ago  Vasco  da 
Gama's  exploring  caravels  dropped  anchor  in  its  har- 
bour, and  the  architecture  of  the  city  is  still  Portuguese; 

143 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

a  century  later  the  dhows  of  the  piratical  sultans  of 
Muskat  swooped  down,  giving  to  Zanzibar  an  Arab  dy- 
nasty, a  lucrative  slave  trade  and  the  Arabic  tongue; 
then  a  British  war-ship  came,  bringing  with  it  Brit- 
ish law  and  order  and  decency,  and,  under  the  mask 
of  a  "protectorate,"  British  rule.  Though  its  golden 
age  ended  with  the  extermination  of  the  trade  in  "black 
ivory,"  it  is  still  a  place  of  considerable  importance: 
the  end  of  several  submarine  cables,  a  port  of  call  for 
many  steamship  lines,  a  naval  base  within  easy  strik- 
ing distance  of  the  German  and  Portuguese  colonies 
on  the  East  Coast  and  guarding  the  lines  of  communica- 
tion between  the  Cape  and  the  Canal,  and  the  place  of 
export  for  the  major  portion  of  the  world's  supply  of 
copra,  cloves,  and  ivory. 

Seen  from  the  harbour,  Zanzibar  has  little  to  com- 
mend it.  So  uninviting,  indeed,  is  the  face  that  it  turns 
seaward,  that  the  story  is  told  of  an  American  politician 
sent  there  as  consul,  who,  after  taking  one  look  from  the 
steamer's  deck  at  the  sun-baked  town,  with  its  treeless, 
yellow  beach  and  its  flat-roofed,  whitewashed  houses, 
refused  to  go  ashore  at  all,  from  the  next  port  at  which 
the  steamer  called  cabling  his  resignation  to  Washing- 
ton. Though  a  city  of  something  over  one  hundred 
thousand  people,  with  the  major  portion  of  the  trade  of 
East  Africa  in  its  hands,  Zanzibar  has  neither  dock,  jetty, 
nor  wharf,  passengers  and  packages  alike  being  disem- 
barked in  small  boats  and  carried  through  the  surf 
on  the  shoulders  of  Swahili  boatmen.  There  are  no 
words  in  the  language  adequate  to  describe  the  scene' 

144 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

which  takes  place  on  the  beach  bordering  the  harbour 
when  a  mail  steamer  comes  in.  The  passengers — white- 
helmeted  tourists;  pompous,  drill-clad  officials;  sallow- 
faced  Parsee  merchants;  chattering  Hindoo  artisans; 
haughty,  hawk-nosed  Arabs;  and  cotton-clad  Swahilis 
from  the  mainland — are  unceremoniously  dumped  with 
their  belongings  on  the  sand,  where  they  instantly  be- 
come the  centres  of  shouting,  pleading,  cursing,  strug- 
gling, gesticulating,  perspiring  mobs  of  porters  and 
hotel-runners,  from  whose  rough  importunities  they 
are  rescued  only  by  the  efforts  of  a  dozen  askaris,  who 
lay  their  rhinoceros-hide  whips  about  them  indiscrim- 
inately. 

When  a  poor  imitation  of  order  has  been  restored 
and  the  luggage  has  been  rescued  and  sorted,  you  start 
for  the  hotel — there  is  only  one  deserving  of  the  name — 
with  a  voluble  hotel-runner  clinging  to  your  arm  as 
though  afraid  you  would  break  away,  and  followed 
by  a  miniature  safari  of  porters  balancing  trunks,  hat- 
boxes,  kit-bags,  gun-cases,  bath-tubs,  and  the  other  im- 
pedimenta of  an  African  traveller  on  their  turbaned 
heads.  Returning  the  ostentatious  salute  of  the  tan- 
coloured  sentry  at  the  head  of  the  water-stairs,  you  fol- 
low your  guide  through  a  series  of  tortuous  and  narrow 
alleys,  plunge  into  the  darkness  of  an  ill-smelling  tunnel, 
and  suddenly  emerge,  blinded  with  the  sun-glare,  into 
a  thoroughfare  lined  on  either  side  with  tiny,  fascinat- 
ing, hole-in-the-wall  shops,  whose  owners  rush  out  and 
offer  you  their  silver,  ivory,  and  ostrich-feather  wares 
vociferously. 

145 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Quite  unexpectedly  the  procession  halts  under  a 
swinging  sign  bearing  the  legend  "  Afrika  Hotel. "  The 
proprietor,  a  rotund,  red-cheeked  German  who  looks 
as  if  he  had  stepped  straight  out  of  a  Munich  beer-gar- 
den, escorts  you  pantingly  up  two — three — four  flights 
of  stone  stairs,  lined  on  either  side  with  strange  native 
weapons  and  East  Coast  curios,  to  a  brick-floored  cell 
under  the  roof,  there  being  more  likelihood  of  catching 
an  occasional  breeze,  he  explains,  near  the  top.  Wind 
in  any  form  is  as  scarce  in  Zanzibar  as  rain  is  in  the 
Sahara,  and  when  they  do  get  a  breath  of  air  strong 
enough  to  stir  the  window  curtains  it  is  as  much  of  an 
event  as  a  cyclone  is  in  Kansas.  The  furniture  of  the 
room,  monastic  in  its  simplicity,  consists  of  an  iron 
bed,  an  iron  table,  an  iron  chair,  and  an  iron  washstand 
supporting  a  tin  bowl  and  pitcher,  for  anything  which 
is  not  of  metal  stands  an  excellent  chance  of  destruc- 
tion by  the  devastating  swarms  of  red  ants.  The  bed  is 
draped  with  a  double  thickness  of  mosquito  netting  of 
so  fine  a  mesh  that  the  air  within  feels  strained  and 
unnourishing,  like  milk  that  has  been  skimmed  and 
watered,  and  the  heavy  shutters  are  closed  in  a  fruitless 
attempt  to  keep  out  some  of  the  stifling  mid-day  heat, 
though  the  proprietor,  after  glancing  at  the  thermom- 
eter, remarks  that  it  isn't  so  hot  after  all,  being  only  120 
in  the  shade. 

You  are  advised  to  go  to  bed  in  the  dark,  as  a  light 
would  attract  the  mosquitoes,  and  never,  never,  under 
any  circumstances,  to  get  into  bed  until  you  have  as- 
sured yourself  that  there  are  no  mosquitoes  inside  the 

146 


'Zanzibar  has  neither  dock,  jetty,  nor  wharf,  passengers  and  packages  alike  being  disembarked  in  small 
boats  and  carried  through  the  surf  on  the  shoulders  of  Swahili  boatmen." 


Photograph  by  DeLord,  Zanzibar. 

The  business  portion  of  Zanzibar  is  a  wilderness  of  narrow  streets  and  dim  bazaars,  hemmed  in  with  tiny 
shops  and  wretched  dwellings,  with  here  and  there  an  ancient  house  dating  from  the  Portuguese 
occupation. 

THE   GATEWAY  TO  EAST  AFRICA. 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

curtains,  though  the  proprietor  cheerfully  adds:  "But 
you  can  only  get  fever  from  the  black-and-white-striped 
ones."  Likewise,  you  are  solemnly  warned  never  to 
go  out  of  doors  during  the  day  without  a  topee  lest  you 
die  from  sunstroke  (I  knew  one  man  who  took  off  his 
helmet  long  enough  to  wave  good-bye  to  a  departing 
friend  and  was  dead  in  an  hour  in  consequence) ;  never 
to  drink  other  than  bottled  water  (at  two  rupees  the 
bottle)  lest  you  die  from  typhoid;  never  to  stay  out 
of  doors  after  nightfall  lest  you  contract  malaria;  never 
to  put  on  your  boots  without  first  shaking  them  out 
lest  a  snake  or  scorpion  have  chosen  them  to  spend  the 
night  in;  never  to  return  late  at  night  from  the  club 
without  getting  a  policeman  to  escort  you,  lest  a  native 
thug  run  a  knife  between  your  shoulder-blades;  and 
never  to  put  your  revolver  under  your  pillow,  where  it 
cannot  be  reached  without  attracting  attention,  but  to 
keep  it  beside  you  in  the  bed,  so  that  you  can  shoot 
through  the  bedclothes  without  warning  if  you  should 
wake  up  to  find  an  intruder  in  your  room. 

The  best  and  most  interesting  thing  about  the 
Afrika  Hotel  is  its  bath,  a  forbidding,  stone-floored 
room,  totally  devoid  of  furniture  or  tub.  It  is  sepa- 
rated from  the  sleeping-room  by  the  hotel  parlour,  so 
that  lady  callers  unaccustomed  to  Zanzibar  ways  are 
sometimes  a  trifle  startled  to  see  a  gentleman  whose 
only  garment  is  a  bath-towel  pass  through  the  parlour 
with  a  hop-skip-and-jump  on  his  way  to  the  bath.  You 
clap  your  hands,  which  is  the  East  Coast  equivalent  for 
pressing  a  button,  and  in  prompt  response  appears  an 

i47 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

ebony-skinned  domestic  bearing  on  his  head  a  Stand- 
ard Oil  can  filled  with  water.  Running  through  a  staple 
in  the  ceiling  is  a  rope,  and  to  the  end  of  this  rope  he 
attaches  the  can,  hoisting  it  until  it  swings  a  dozen  feet 
above  your  head.  Hanging  from  a  hole  in  the  side  of 
the  can  is  a  cord.  When  you  are  ready  for  your  bath 
you  stand  underneath  the  can,  jerk  the  cord  sharply, 
and  the  can  empties  itself  over  you  like  a  cloudburst. 
Then  you  clap  your  hands  and  wait  until  the  Swahili 
brings  more  water,  when  you  do  it  all  over  again. 

The  first  thing  the  new  arrival  in  Zanzibar  does  is 
to  bathe  and  put  on  a  fresh  suit  of  white  linen,  for  to 
appear  presentable  in  the  terrible  humidity  of  the  East 
Coast  requires  at  least  four  white  suits  a  day;  and  the 
second  thing  he  does  is  to  call  upon  the  consul,  a  very 
homesick  young  gentleman,  who  is  so  glad  to  see  any  one 
from  "  God's  country"  that  he  is  only  too  eager  to  spend 
his  meagre  salary  in  entertaining  him.  If  it  is  drawing 
toward  sunset  you  will  probably  find  him  just  starting 
for  the  golf  club,  which  is  the  rendezvous  at  nightfall 
for  Zanzibar's  European  society,  whose  chief  recrea- 
tions, so  far  as  I  could  see,  are  golf,  gambling,  and  gossip. 
With  a  sturdy,  khaki-clad  Swahili,  a  brass  American 
eagle  on  the  front  of  his  fez,  trotting  between  the  shafts 
of  the  consular  'rickshaw  (the  Department  of  State 
refuses  to  appropriate  enough  money  to  provide  our 
representative  with  a  carriage),  and  another  pushing 
behind,  you  whirl  down  the  bright  red  highway  which 
leads  to  the  suburb  of  Bububu;  past  the  white  resi- 
dency from  which  the  British  consul-general   gives 

148 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

his  orders  to  the  little  brown  man  who  is  permitted 
to  play  at  ruling  Zanzibar;  past  the  police  barracks, 
where,  at  sight  of  the  eagle  on  the  'rickshaw  coolies' 
fezes,  the  sentry  on  duty  shouts  some  unintelligible 
jargon,  a  bugle  blares,  and  a  group  of  native  constables 
spring  into  line  and  bring  their  hands  smartly  to  the 
salute  as  you  pass;  past  the  Marconi  station  on  the 
cliff,  where  the  wireless  chatters  ceaselessly  with  Baga- 
moyo  and  Kilindini  and  Dar-es-Salam;  until  you  come 
to  a  sudden  halt  before  a  bungalow,  almost  hidden  in  a 
wonderful  tropic  garden,  whose  broad  verandas  over- 
look an  emerald  velvet  golf  course  which  stretches  from 
the  highway  to  the  sea. 

Playing  golf  in  Zanzibar  always  struck  me  as  one 
of  the  most  incongruous  things  I  ever  did.  It  seems  as 
though  one  ought  to  devote  his  energies  to  pirating  or 
pearl-fishing  or  slave-trading  in  a  place  with  such  a 
name.  Moreover,  there  is  such  a  continuous  circus  pro- 
cession passing  along  the  highway — natives  in  kangas 
of  every  pattern  and  colour;  Masai  and  Swahili  warri- 
ors from  the  mainland;  Parsee  bankers  in  victorias  and 
Hindoo  merchants  in  'rickshaws;  giant  privates  of  the 
King's  African  Rifles  in  bottle-green  tunics  and  blue 
puttees;  veiled  women  of  the  Sultan's  zenana  out  for 
an  airing  in  cumbersome,  gaudily  painted  barouches, 
preceded  and  followed  by  red-jacketed  lancers  on  white 
horses;  perhaps  his  Highness  himself,  a  dapper,  dis- 
contented-looking young  mulatto,  whirling  by  in  a  big 
gray  racing-car — that  it  is  quite  out  of  the  question  to 
keep  your  eye  on  the  ball,  and  you  play  very  bad  golf 

149 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

in  consequence.  Another  trouble  is  that  the  caddies 
are  all  natives,  and  golf  is  discouraging  enough  in  itself 
without  having  to  shout  "Fore!"  or  ask  for  a  mashie 
or  a  putter  in  Swahili. 

After  a  perfunctory  round  or  two  you  go  back  to 
the  club-house  veranda,  where  the  European  society  of 
Zanzibar  is  seated  in  cane  chairs,  with  the  English 
illustrated  weeklies,  and  tall  glasses  with  ice  tinkling 
in  them.  The  talk  is  the  talk  of  exiled  white  folk  every- 
where: the  news  contained  in  the  Reuter's  despatches 
which  are  posted  each  evening  on  the  club  bulletin- 
board;  the  condition  of  the  ivory  market;  the  prospects 
for  big  game-shooting  under  the  new  German  game  laws; 
the  favourites  for  the  next  day's  cricket  match,  the  next 
week's  polo  game,  or  the  next  month's  race  meet;  the 
latest  books,  the  newest  plays — as  gathered  from  the 
illustrated  weeklies;  what  is  going  to  become  of  Smyth- 
Cunninghame's  widow,  whose  husband  has  just  died  of 
fever;  is  it  true  that  Major  Bufhngton  has  been  trans- 
ferred from  the  "K.  A.  R."  to  a  line  regiment;  and  is 
Germany  really  looking  for  war? 

That  night  the  consul  gives  a  dinner  for  you  at  the 
Zanzibar  Club,  where  you  are  served  by  bare-footed  ser- 
vants immaculate  in  crimson  turbans  and  white  linen, 
and  eat  with  solid  silver  from  irreproachable  china,  in 
a  room  made  almost  comfortable  by  many  swinging 
punkahs.  After  dinner  you  sit  on  the  terrace  in  the 
dark,  somewhere  between  the  ocean  and  the  stars,  and 
over  the  coffee  and  cigars  you  listen  to  strange  stories 
of  "the  Coast,"  told  by  men  who  themselves  played  a 

150 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

part  in  them.  One  man  tells  you  what  Stanley  really 
said  when,  after  months  in  the  jungle  without  seeing  a 
white  man's  face,  he  finally  stumbled  on  the  camp  of 
Livingstone,  and  how,  instead  of  rushing  up  and  throw- 
ing his  arms  around  him  and  crying,  "Saved  at  last, 
old  fellow;  saved  at  last!"  he  lifted  his  helmet  at  sight 
of  the  gaunt,  fever-stricken  man  sitting  in  front  of  the 
tent,  and  said  very  politely,  just  as  he  would  if  accost- 
ing a  stranger  on  Fifth  Avenue  or  Piccadilly,  "Doctor 
Livingstone,  I  believe?"  Another,  a  wiry,  bright-eyed 
Frenchman,  with  a  face  tanned  to  the  colour  of  mahog- 
any, tells  of  the  days  when  the  route  from  Tanganyika 
to  the  coast  was  marked  by  the  bleaching  skeletons  of 
slaves,  and  he  points  out  to  you,  across  the  house-tops, 
the  squalid  dwelling  in  which  Tippoo  Tib,  the  greatest 
of  all  the  slave-traders,  died.  A  British  commissioner, 
the  glow  of  his  cigar  lighting  up  his  ruddy  face,  his 
scarlet  cummerbund,  and  his  white  mess  jacket,  relates 
in  strictest  confidence  a  chapter  of  secret  diplomatic 
history,  and  you  learn  how  the  German  Foreign  Office 
shattered  the  British  dream  of  an  all-red  Cape-to-Cairo 
railway,  and  why  England  is  so  desirous  of  the  Congo 
being  placed  under  international  control.  A  captain 
of  the  King's  African  Rifles  holds  you  spellbound  with 
a  recital  of  the  amazing  exploits  of  the  American  ele- 
phant poacher,  Rogers,  who,  jeering  at  the  attempts 
of  three  governments  to  capture  him,  made  himself, 
single-handed,  the  uncrowned  king  of  Equatoria.  Then 
a  Danish  ivory-hunter  breaks  in,  and  you  hear  all  sorts 
of  wild  tales  of  life  on  safari,  of  ivory-trading  in  the 

151 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Lado  Enclave,  of  brushes  with  the  Uganda  police  south 
of  Gondokoro,  and  of  strange  tribal  customs  practised 
in  the  hinterland.  When  the  dawn  begins  to  creep  up 
out  of  the  east,  the  Englishmen  tell  the  drowsy  steward 
to  bring  them  Scotch  and  sodas  and  the  Frenchmen 
order  absinthes;  then  every  one  shakes  hands  with 
every  one  else  and  you  make  your  way  back  to  your 
hotel  through  the  narrow,  silent  streets,  returning  the 
salute  of  the  night  constable  sleepily. 

No  visitor  leaves  Zanzibar  without  going  to  the 
cemetery.  Like  the  palace,  and  the  stone  ship  built 
by  a  former  sultan,  it  is  one  of  the  show  places  of  the 
city.  I  saw  it  under  the  guidance  of  a  gloomy  English 
resident,  who  said  that  he  always  walked  there  every 
evening  "so  as  to  get  accustomed  to  the  place  before 
staying  in  it  permanently."  Leading  me  across  the 
well-kept  grass  to  two  newly  dug  graves,  he  waved  his 
hand  in  a  "take-your-choice;  they  're-both-ready  "  ges- 
ture. "Two  deaths  to-day?"  I  queried.  "Not  yet," 
said  he,  "but  we  always  keep  a  couple  of  graves  ready- 
dug  for  Europeans.  In  this  climate,  you  know,  we 
have  to  bury  very  quickly."  For  in  Zanzibar,  as  all 
along  the  East  Coast,  the  white  man's  hardest  fight  is 
with  a  foe  he  can  feel  only  as  a  poison  in  his  burning 
veins,  and  can  see  only  in  the  dreams  of  his  delirium — 
the  deadly  black-water  fever. 

Though  the  streets  in  the  outskirts  of  Zanzibar  are 
wide,  well  shaded,  and  excellently  macadamised  with 
some  kind  of  bright-red  soil  which  recalls  the  roads  out- 
side of  Colombo,  in  Ceylon,  the  business  portion  of  the 

152 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

town,  where  the  natives  chiefly  live,  is  a  labyrinth  of 
narrow  streets  and  dim  bazaars,  hemmed  in  with  tiny 
shops  and  wretched  dwellings,  with  here  and  there  an 
ancient  house  dating  from  the  Portuguese  occupation, 
impregnable  as  a  feudal  castle,  its  massive  doorways  of 
exquisitely  carved  teakwood  in  sharp  contrast  to  the 
surrounding  squalor.  Every  shop  is  open  to  the  street, 
and  half  of  them,  it  seemed  to  me,  are  devoted  to  the 
sale  of  ivory  carvings,  ostrich  feathers,  brassware,  and 
silver-work,  though  the  Arab  workmanship  is  in  all 
cases  poorly  executed  and  crude  in  design.  The  most 
typical  things  to  be  bought  in  Zanzibar  are  the  quaint 
images  of  African  animals  which  the  natives  carve  from 
the  coarser  grades  of  ivory  and  which  make  charming, 
though  costly,  souvenirs.  Nothing  is  cheap  in  Zanzi- 
bar, or,  for  that  matter,  anywhere  else  in  Africa,  and 
every  purchase  is  a  matter  of  prolonged  and  wearisome 
negotiation,  the  seller  fixing  a  fantastic  price  and  lower- 
ing it  gradually,  as  he  thinks  discreet,  his  rock-bottom 
figure  depending  upon  the  behaviour  and  appearance 
of  the  customer. 

Zanzibar  is  still  the  chief  ivory  market  of  the  world, 
the  supplies  of  both  elephant  and  rhino  ivory,  so  I  was 
assured  by  British  officials,  steadily  increasing  rather 
than  diminishing.  A  few  years  ago  it  was  feared  that 
the  supply  of  ivory  would  soon  run  out,  but  the  indis- 
criminate slaughter  of  elephants  has  been  checked,  at 
least  in  British  territory,  by  strict  game  laws  rigidly 
enforced.  Whether  from  the  laxity  of  its  laws  or  the 
indifference  of  its  officials,  German  East  Africa  is  still 

i53 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

the  ivory-hunter's  paradise,  the  extermination  of  ele- 
phants in  that  colony  proceeding  almost  unchecked. 
When  one  remembers  that  African  ivory  brings  all  the 
way  from  fifty  dollars  to  five  hundred  dollars  per  hun- 
dredweight in  the  open  market,  and  that  the  tusks  of  a 
full-grown  elephant  weigh  anywhere  from  one  hundred 
to  five  hundred  pounds,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  ivory- 
hunter's  trade  is  a  profitable  though  a  hazardous  one. 
Other  ivory-hunters,  instead  of  going  after  the  elephants 
themselves,  spend  their  time  in  journeying  from  village 
to  village  and  bartering  with  the  natives  for  the  stores 
of  ivory — some  of  them  the  produce,  of  centuries — which 
most  of  them  possess.  Unless  the  trader  knows  his 
business,  however,  the  simple-minded  natives  will  sell 
him  the  so-called  "dead"  ivory  from  the  bottom  of  the 
pile  rather  than  the  "live"  ivory  of  elephants  recently 
killed,  which,  because  of  its  greater  elasticity  and  better 
colour,  commands  a  much  higher  price,  and,  I  might 
add,  forms  but  a  small  part  of  the  supply.  Somewhere 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  half  a  million  pounds  of  ivory 
are  shipped  from  Zanzibar  each  year  to  make  the  toilet- 
articles  and  billiard-balls  and  piano-keys  of  the  world. 

The  population  of  Zanzibar  is  pretty  evenly  di- 
vided between  Arabs  and  Swahilis,  with  a  considerable 
sprinkling  of  East  Indians,  who  play  the  same  roles  of 
peddlers,  petty  tradesmen,  and  money-lenders  in  the 
Orient  that  the  Jews  and  Armenians  do  in  the  Occident. 
The  dress  of  the  Swahili  is  as  simple  as  it  is  striking: 
two  lengths  of  cotton  cloth,  called  kanga,  one  draped 
about  the  waist  and  the  other  about  the  shoulders,  with 

i54 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

an  extra  remnant  twisted  into  a  turban,  form  the  cos- 
tume of  men  and  women  alike,  though  the  Swahili 
women,  in  addition  to  the  kanga  proper,  wear  cotton 
pantalets  resembling  those  in  fashion  in  ante-bellum 
days,  edged  at  the  ankles  with  neat  little  frills,  like 
those  the  chefs  at  fashionable  restaurants  put  on  lamb 
chops.  These  kangas  are  crudely  stamped  in  an  end- 
less variety  of  startling  patterns,  some  of  the  more 
elaborate  designs  looking,  from  a  little  distance,  as 
though  embroidered.  The  inventiveness  of  the  British, 
Belgian,  and  German  designers  must  be  sorely  taxed, 
for  the  fashions  in  East  Africa  change  as  rapidly  as 
they  do  in  Paris  and  with  as  little  warning,  the  kangas 
stamped  with  card-pips — hearts,  diamonds,  clubs,  and 
spades — which  were  all  the  rage  among  Zanzibar's  dusky 
leaders  of  fashion  for  a  time,  suddenly  giving  place  to 
those  bearing  crude  pictures  of  sailing-ships  or  Arabic 
quotations  from  the  Koran.  One  negro  dandy  whom 
I  saw  paraded  the  streets,  the  envied  of  all  his  fellows, 
wearing  a  kanga  on  which  was  printed,  in  endless  rep- 
etition, the  British  coat  of  arms  and  the  loyal  motto 
"God  Save  the  King!"  while  still  another  swaggered 
by  in  a  garment  sprinkled  over  with  the  legend  in  letters 
six  inches  high  "Remember  the  Maine!"  Though  the 
important  trade  in  cotton  goods  which  we  once  had  with 
East  Africa  has  long  since  passed  into  British  and  Ger- 
man hands,  there  is  a  certain  melancholy  satisfaction  in 
knowing  that,  so  firmly  does  the  reputation  of  our  cot- 
tons endure,  the  natives  of  all  this  region  still  insist  on 
the  piece  goods  which  they  purchase,  whether  made  in 

i55 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Manchester  or  Dresden,  bearing  the  stamp  "American," 
and  will  take  no  other. 

The  costumes  of  the  Arabs,  on  the  other  hand,  re- 
call all  the  stories  of  pirates  and  slave-traders  which  one 
associates  with  this  romantic  coast,  for  the  men,  ignor- 
ing the  law  which  prohibits  the  carrying  of  arms,  swag- 
ger insolently  through  the  streets  with  dagger-filled 
sashes  and  trailing  scimiters,  their  white  jibbahs  flap- 
ping about  their  sandalled  feet  and  their  snowy  turbans 
cocked  rakishly.  The  dress  of  the  Arab  women  of  Zan- 
zibar resembles  the  costume  of  no  other  people,  its 
characteristic  features  being  the  immense,  doughnut- 
shaped  turbans  and  the  frilled,  skin-tight  trousers 
striped  like  barber-poles. 

The  universal  medium  of  communication  in  Zanzi- 
bar and  along  the  East  Coast  is  Swahili,  this  lingua 
franca  being  generally  used  not  only  between  Arabs  and 
natives,  and  between  natives  and  Europeans,  but  be- 
tween Europeans  themselves,  the  English,  French,  and 
Portuguese  traders  who  do  business  in  German  East 
Africa  depending  entirely  upon  this  mutually  understood 
tongue  for  conversing  with  the  Germans.  I  remember 
once,  in  Dar-es-Salam,  listening  to  an  Englishman  who 
knew  no  French  and  a  Frenchman  who  knew  no  English 
hold  an  animated  political  argument,  and  later  on  bar- 
gain with  the  German  hotel-keeper  for  accommodations 
in  the  same  outlandish  tongue. 

I  have  always  found  that  the  farther  people  dwell 
from  civilisation,  the  more  punctilious  they  are  about 
observing  its  usages.    That  is  why  English  officials 

156 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

at  remote  and  lonely  stations  in  India  invariably  put 
on  evening  clothes  before  they  sit  down  to  their  solitary 
dinners,  and  why  the  question  of  precedence  is  not  taken 
nearly  as  seriously  in  London  or  Paris  or  New  York 
as  it  is  in  Entebbe  or  Sierra  Leone.  One  would  quite 
naturally  suppose  that  the  Europeans  dwelling  in  those 
sun-scorched,  fever-ridden,  God-forsaken  countries  along 
the  East  Coast  would  adopt  the  careless  attitude  of 
Kipling's  homesick  soldier,  who  longed  for  a  land  "where 
there  ain't  no  Ten  Commandments  and  a  man  can  raise 
a  thirst";  but,  strangely  enough,  the  exact  opposite 
is  the  case.  There  is  plenty  of  drinking  throughout 
Africa,  it  is  true,  for  the  white  men  dwelling  there  will 
assure  you  that  to  exist  in  such  a  climate  a  man  must 
"keep  his  liver  afloat,"  but,  though  heavy  drinking  is 
the  rule,  the  man  who  so  far  loses  control  of  himself  as 
to  step  beyond  the  bounds  of  decency  is  ostracised  with 
a  promptness  and  completeness  unheard  of  in  more 
civilised  places.  This  respect  for  the  social  conven- 
tions was  graphically  illustrated  by  an  unpleasant  little 
episode  which  occurred  during  my  stay  in  Zanzibar. 
A  young  Englishman,  who  had  been  rubber-prospecting 
in  the  wilds  of  the  back  country  for  nearly  a  year,  cele- 
brated his  return  to  civilisation,  or  what  stands  out  there 
for  civilisation,  by  giving  a  stag  dinner  at  the  club.  It 
was  rather  a  hilarious  affair,  as  such  things  go,  and  when 
it  broke  up  at  dawn  every  one  had  had  quite  as  much  to 
drink  as  was  good  for  him,  while  the  youthful  host  had 
had  entirely  too  much.  In  fact,  he  insisted  on  winding 
up  the  jollification  by  smashing  all  the  crockery  and 

iS7 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

glassware  in  sight,  and,  when  the  native  steward  re- 
monstrated, he  tripped  him  up  very  neatly  and  sat  on 
him.  Some  hours  later,  being  sober  and  very  much 
ashamed  of  himself,  he  sent  a  check  for  the  damage  he 
had  done,  together  with  a  manly  letter  of  apology,  to 
the  board  of  governors,  which  promptly  responded  by 
demanding  his  resignation.  Now,  to  drop  a  man  from 
a  club  in  East  Africa  is  equivalent  to  marooning  him  on 
a  desert  island,  for  out  there  the  club  is  invariably  the 
rendezvous  of  the  respectable  European  society,  the 
only  place  where  one  can  get  a  European  book  or  news- 
paper to  read  or  a  well-cooked  meal  to  eat,  and  the  scene 
of  those  dinners,  dances,  card  parties,  charades,  and 
other  forms  of  amusement  which  help  to  make  existence 
in  that  region  endurable.  Not  content  with  demanding 
his  resignation  and  thus  closing  to  him  the  gateway  to 
every  decent  form  of  recreation  in  Zanzibar,  the  virtu- 
ous board  of  governors  notified  every  other  club  on  the 
coast  of  its  action,  so  that  when  business  called  the 
youngster  to  Mombasa  or  Dar-es-Salam  or  Lourenco 
Marques,  he  found  himself  barred  from  the  privileges  of 
the  clubs  in  those  places  as  well.  But  his  punishment 
did  not  end  there,  for,  a  few  days  after  his  escapade,  two 
club  members  to  whom  he  nodded  upon  the  street  cut 
him  dead,  while  another,  a  man  whom  he  had  known  in- 
timately for  years,  answered  his  greeting  by  remarking, 
as  he  raised  his  eyebrows,  "Really,  sir,  I  don't  think  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance. " 

In  the  happy-go-lucky  days  before  the  reorganisa- 
tion of  our  consular  service  a  profane  and  uncouth 

158 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

lumberman  named  Mulligan — the  name  will  do  as  well 
as  another — was  rewarded  for  certain  political  services 
by  being  appointed  consul  at  Zanzibar.  At  that  time 
the  American  consulate  was  in  a  building  on  the  edge 
of  the  harbour  and  almost  next  door  to  the  Sultan's 
palace.  Mulligan  had  not  been  in  Zanzibar  a  week 
before  he  began  to  complain  that  he  was  being  robbed 
of  his  sleep  by  the  women  of  the  royal  harem,  who  chose 
the  comparatively  cool  hour  just  before  sunrise  in  which 
to  bathe  on  the  sandy  beach  below  the  consulate  win- 
dows. Mulligan,  after  making  numerous  complaints 
without  receiving  any  satisfaction,  openly  announced 
that  the  next  morning  he  was  disturbed  he  would  take 
the  law  into  his  own  hands.  He  did  not  have  to  wait 
long  for  an  opportunity,  for,  returning  a  few  nights 
later  from  an  unusually  late  seance  at  the  club,  he 
had  scarcely  fallen  asleep  when  he  was  aroused  by  the 
shrieks  of  laughter  of  native  women  bathing  beneath 
his  window.  Springing  out  of  bed,  he  caught  up  a  shot- 
gun standing  in  the  corner,  slipped  in  a  shell  loaded 
with  bird-shot,  and,  pushing  the  muzzle  out  of  the  win- 
dow, fired  at  random.  The  roar  of  the  discharge  was 
echoed  by  a  chorus  of  piercing  screams  and  Arabic 
ejaculations  of  pain  and  terror,  whereupon  the  consul, 
satisfied  that  he  had  effectually  frightened  the  dis- 
turbers of  his  rest,  returned  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  An 
hour  later  he  was  reawakened  by  his  excited  vice- 
consul,  who  burst  into  the  bedroom  exclaiming,  "You'll 
have  to  get  out  of  here  quick,  Mr.  Consul!  It  won't  be 
healthy  for  you  in  Zanzibar  after  what  happened  this 

i59 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

morning.  There's  a  German  boat  in  the  harbour  and 
if  you  hurry  you'll  just  about  catch  her!  But  there's 
no  time  to  spare."  "Now,  what  the  devil  have  I  got 
to  get  out  of  here  for,  confound  you?"  demanded  the 
consul,  now  thoroughly  awake  and  thoroughly  angry. 
"Certainly  not  because  I  frightened  a  lot  of  nigger 
wenches  who  were  waking  me  up  at  four  o'clock  every 
morning  with  their  damned  hullabaloo?"  "Nigger 
wenches  nothing!"  exclaimed  the  vice-consul,  as  he 
began  to  throw  his  chief's  belongings  into  a  trunk. 
"When  you  let  off  that  load  of  bird-shot  this  morn- 
ing you  peppered  the  Sultan's  favourite  wife,  and  now 
the  old  man's  fairly  hopping  with  rage  and  swears  that 
he'll  have  your  life  even  if  you  are  the  American 
consul."  Forty  minutes  later  ex-Consul  Mulligan 
ascended  the  gangway  of  a  homeward-bound  steamer, 
for  those  were  the  days  before  the  British  protect- 
orate, when  the  tyrannical  sultans  of  Zanzibar  were 
laws  unto  themselves. 

The  morning  before  I  left  I  went  with  the  consul 
to  call  on  his  Highness  Seyyid  Aii  bin  Hamoud  bin 
Mohammed,  the  Sultan  of  Zanzibar.*  The  'rickshaw 
stopped  with  a  jerk  in  front  of  the  handsome  iron  gates 
of  the  palace;  the  guard  turned  out  and  presented  arms, 
while  a  negro  bugler  sounded  a  barbaric  fanfare;  an 
official  in  white  linen  and  much  gold  lace  met  us  at  the 
entrance  and  escorted  us  up  flight  after  flight  of  heavily 
carpeted  stairs,  until  we  emerged,  breathless  and  per- 

*  Since  this  was  written  Sultan  Ali   bin  Hamoud  has  abdicated  in 
favour  of  his  cousin,  Seyyid  Khalifa. 

1 60 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

spiring,  on  the  breeze-swept  upper  veranda  of  the  four- 
story  building,  which,  with  its  long  piazzas  and  its  un- 
compromising architecture,  looks  more  than  anything 
else  like  an  American  summer  hotel.  After  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  spent  in  smoking  highly  perfumed  cigarettes, 
another  official  announced  that  his  Highness  would  re- 
ceive us,  and  we  were  ushered  into  a  small  room  fur- 
nished like  an  office,  where  a  pleasant-looking  young 
negro  of  twenty-six  or  so  was  sitting  at  an  American 
roll-top  desk  dictating  letters  to  an  English  secretary. 
Like  every  one  else,  he  was  dressed  entirely  in  white 
linen,  with  a  red  tarboosh,  gold  shoulder-straps,  and 
pumps  of  white  buckskin.  Motioning  us  to  be  seated, 
he  offered  us  more  of  the  perfumed  cigarettes,  inquir- 
ing, with  an  Eton  accent,  as  to  the  state  of  my  health, 
when  I  arrived,  what  were  my  impressions  of  Zanzibar, 
when  I  intended  to  leave,  and  where  I  was  going.  As 
we  were  bowing  ourselves  out,  after  ten  minutes  of 
perfunctory  conversation,  the  Sultan's  secretary  sidled 
up  and  whispered:  "His  Highness  expects  that  you 
will  give  him  the  pleasure  of  staying  to  luncheon." 

The  luncheon  was  very  much  the  same  as  one  would 
get  at  Sherry's  or  Claridge's  or  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  except 
that  for  our  special  benefit  a  few  native  dishes  with 
strange  names  and  still  stranger  flavours  had  been  added 
to  the  menu.  The  wines  were  irreproachable  and  the 
Hodeidah  coffee  and  Aleppo  cigarettes  could  have  been 
had  nowhere  west  of  Suez.  My  eye  was  caught  by  the 
magnificence  of  the  jewel-monogrammed  cigarette-case 
which  the  Sultan  constantly  passed  to  me,  and  I  ven- 

161 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

tured  to  comment  on  it  admiringly.  "Do  you  like 
it?"  said  he,  with  a  pleased  smile.  "It  is  only  a  trifle 
that  I  picked  up  last  spring  in  Paris.  Accept  it  from 
me  as  a  little  souvenir  of  your  visit  to  Zanzibar — really 
— please  do."  Quite  naturally  I  hesitated,  as  who 
would  not  at  accepting  offhand  a  thing  worth  a  couple 
of  thousand  rupees.  The  Sultan  looked  disappointed. 
"It  is  not  worthy  of  you,"  he  remarked.  "Some  day 
I  shall  send  you  something  more  fitting, "  and  he  put  it 
back  in  his  pocket.  All  the  rest  of  my  stay  in  Zanzibar 
I  kept  thinking  how  near  I  came  to  getting  that  magnif- 
icent case,  and  what  a  story  it  would  have  made  to  tell 
at  dinner  tables  over  the  camembert  and  coffee;  and 
it  almost  spoiled  my  visit.  As  I  was  leaving  the  palace 
the  military  secretary  inquired:  "Why  on  earth  didn't 
you  take  the  cigarette  case  when  the  Sultan  offered 
it?"  "Polite  hesitation,"  I  replied.  "I  was  going  to 
accept  it  in  just  a  minute."  "In  the  East  you  should 
accept  first  and  hesitate  afterward,"  he  answered. 

After  luncheon  I  played  billiards  with  the  Sultan. 
He  is  a  good  player,  and  it  was  no  trouble  at  all  to  let 
royalty  win  gracefully.  The  conversation  turned  on 
America.  It  seemed  that  the  two  Americans  whom  his 
Highness  most  admired  were  Theodore  Roosevelt  and 
John  Philip  Sousa;  the  one  because  he  had  visited  Africa 
and  proved  himself  a  real  shikari  ;  the  other  because 
he  had  immortalised  the  Sultan's  dominions  in  his  A 
Typical  Tune  of  Zanzibar.  (It  happened  that  a  month 
or  so  later  I  dined  with  Mr.  Sousa  in  Johannesburg  and 

told  him  this  incident,  whereupon  he  offered  to  send  the 

162 


IN  ZANZIBAR 

Sultan  an  autographed  copy  of  El  Capitan.  If  he  has 
forgotten  to  do  it,  this  will  serve  to  remind  him  that  the 
Sultan's  address  is  still  "The  Palace,  Zanzibar.")  In- 
cidentally his  Highness  mentioned  that  he  was  about 
to  be  married.  Later  on  the  English  secretary  supple- 
mented this  by  explaining  that  his  latest  bride — he  al- 
ready had  three  wives — was  the  fifteen-year-old  daugh- 
ter of  a  well-to-do  merchant  in  the  bazaars,  with  whom 
the  Sultan  had  been  haggling  regarding  the  price  to  be 
paid  for  the  girl  for  a  year  or  more.  After  a  time  we 
strolled  out  on  the  breeze-swept  veranda.  As  I  leaned 
over  the  railing  I  noticed  something  sticking  up  out 
of  the  harbour  and  I  pointed  to  it.  "What  is  that, 
your  Highness?"  I  inquired.  "A  wreck,"  he  answered 
shortly.  "A  wreck!  A  wreck  of  what?"  I  persisted. 
"The  wreck  of  the  Zanzibar  navy,"  he  said,  turning 
away — and  I  suddenly  recalled  the  story  of  the  little 
gun-boat  with  its  negro  crew  that  stood  up  to  the  great 
British  cruiser  and  banged  away  with  its  toy  guns  until 
it  was  sent  to  the  bottom  with  every  man  on  board, 
and  all  at  once  I  felt  very  sorry  for  this  youth,  whose 
fathers  held  sway  over  a  dominion  as  large  as  all  that 
part  of  the  United  States  lying  west  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  but  which,  thanks  to  the  insatiable  land 
hunger  of  the  European  nations,  has  dwindled  to  a 
territory  scarcely  larger  than  Rhode  Island. 

That  in  the  not  far-distant  future  Zanzibar  will 
again  play  a  part  in  the  drama  of  international  politics 
there  is  but  little  doubt.  The  island's  position  adjacent 
to  the  mainland,  from  which  it  is  separated  by  a  channel 

163 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

less  than  thirty  miles  wide,  combined  with  the  advan- 
tages of  its  deep  and  roomy  harbour,  mark  it  naturally 
as  the  chief  entrepot  of  all  East  Africa,  and  the  gate 
through  which  the  interior  of  the  continent  is  destined 
to  be  opened  up  to  European  settlement  and  exploita- 
tion. Being  almost  equidistant — some  two  thousand 
four  hundred  miles — from  India,  the  Cape,  and  the 
Canal,  and  controlling  the  lines  of  cable  communica- 
tion with  Madagascar  and  Mauritius,  it  affords  a 
strategic  position  of  immense  importance  as  a  naval 
base  in  the  contingency  of  closing  the  Suez  Canal  in 
time  of  war.  Germany  has  long  had  a  greedy  eye  on 
Zanzibar,  for  the  nation  that  holds  it  controls,  both 
strategically  and  commercially,  Germany's  East  Afri- 
can possessions  and  their  capital  of  Dar-es-Salam. 
That  England  would  be  willing  to  turn  Zanzibar  over 
to  Germany  in  return  for  the  cession  of  a  strip  of  terri- 
tory through  German  East  Africa  which  would  permit 
the  completion  of  her  long-dreamed-of,  and  at  pres- 
ent indefinitely  interrupted,  Cape-to-Cairo  trunk  line, 
there  is  every  reason  to  believe.  So  I  trust  that  the 
little  brown  man  in  the  white-and-gold  uniform  will  en- 
joy playing  at  sovereignty  while  he  may,  for  if  that  day 
ever  comes  to  pass  when  the  red  banner  on  his  palace 
flagstaff  is  replaced  with  the  standard  of  Germany,  there 
will  pass  into  the  pleasant  oblivion  of  the  Paris  bou- 
levards the  last  of  a  long  line  of  one-time  powerful, 
oftentimes  piratical,  but  always  picturesque  rulers,  the 
Sultans  of  Zanzibar. 


164 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

THE  other  day  two  suave,  frock-coated  gentlemen, 
seated  at  a  green-covered  table  in  the  Foreign 
Office  in  Berlin,  by  putting  their  names  to  the  bottom 
of  a  piece  of  parchment,  caused  a  territory  almost  as 
large  as  the  State  of  Texas  to  become  French,  and  an- 
other territory,  larger  than  the  State  of  Oregon,  to  be- 
come German.  About  as  many  people  were  affected, 
though  not  consulted,  by  that  international  dicker— 
which  has  passed  into  history  as  the  Morocco-Equa- 
toria  Convention — as  there  are  in  the  county  of  Lon- 
don. The  lot  of  about  four-fifths  of  these  people  will 
doubtless  be  materially  improved,  and  in  a  few  years, 
if  they  have  any  gratitude  in  their  Moorish  souls,  they 
will  be  thanking  Allah  for  having  given  them  French 
instead  of  Sherifian  justice.  As  for  those  Congolese 
blacks  who  compose  the  other  fifth,  they  will  soon  find, 
unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  that  the  red-white- 
and-black  flag  stands  for  something  very  different  from 
the  red-white-and-blue  one,  and  that  the  stiff-backed, 
guttural-tongued  German  officers  in  their  tight-fitting 
uniforms  will  prove  sterner  masters  than  the  easy- 
going French  administrateurs  in  their  topees  and  white 
linen. 

Now  the  significance  of  that  convention  does  not 
lie  in  its  ethics — which  are  very  questionable;   nor  in 

165 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

the  territory  and  population  and  resources  concerned — 
which  are  very  great;  but  in  the  fact  that  it  brings 
within  reasonable  measure  of  fulfilment  the  imperial 
dream  which  William  II  began  dreaming  some  seven 
and  twenty  years  ago,  and  which  he  recently  translated 
to  the  world  in  the  declaration  "  Germany's  future  lies 
oversea."  In  those  four  words  is  found  the  foreign 
policy  of  the  Fatherland.  The  episode  which  began 
with  the  sending  of  a  war-ship  to  an  obscure  port  of 
Morocco  and  ended  with  Germany's  acquirement  of  a 
material  addition  to  her  African  domain  was  not,  as 
the  world  supposes,  an  example  of  the  haphazard  land- 
grabbing  so  popular  with  European  nations,  but  a  single 
phase  of  a  vast  and  carefully  laid  scheme  whose  aim  is 
the  creation  of  a  new  and  greater  Germany  oversea — 
a  Deutschland  iiber  Meer. 

To  solve  the  problems  with  which  she  has  been  con- 
fronted by  her  amazing  increase  in  population  and  pro- 
duction, Germany  has  deliberately  embarked  on  a  sys- 
tematic campaign  of  world  expansion  and  exploitation. 
Finding  that  she  needs  a  colonial  empire  in  her  business, 
she  is  setting  out  to  build  one  just  as  she  would  build  a 
fleet  of  dreadnoughts  or  a  ship  canal.  The  fact  that  she 
has  nothing  or  next  to  nothing  to  start  with,  does  not 
worry  her  at  all.  What  she  cannot  obtain  by  purchase 
or  treaty  she  will  obtain  by  threats,  and  what  she  can- 
not obtain  by  threats  she  stands  perfectly  ready  to  ob- 
tain by  going  to  war.  Having  once  made  up  her  mind 
that  the  realisation  of  her  political,  commercial,  and 
economic  ambitions  requires  her  to  have  a  colonial 

166 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

dominion,  she  is  not  going  to  permit  anything  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  her  getting  it.  In  other  words,  wherever 
an  excuse  can  be  provided  for  raising  a  flagstaff,  whether 
on  an  ice-floe  in  the  Arctic  or  an  atoll  in  the  South 
Pacific,  there  the  German  flag  shall  flutter;  wherever 
trade  is  to  be  found,  there  Hamburg  cargo  boats  shall 
drop  their  anchors,  there  Stettin  engines  shall  thunder 
over  Essen  rails,  there  Solingen  cutlery  and  Silesian 
cottons  shall  be  sold  by  merchants  speaking  the  lan- 
guage of  the  Fatherland.  It  is  a  scheme  astounding 
by  its  very  vastness,  as  methodically  planned  as  a 
breakfast-food  manufacturer's  advertising  campaign 
and  as  systematically  conducted;  and  already,  thanks 
to  Teutonic  audacity,  aggressiveness,  and  perseverance, 
backed  up  by  German  banks,  fleets,  and  armies,  much 
nearer  realisation  than  most  people  suppose. 

In  Morocco,  East  Africa,  and  the  Congo;  in  Tur- 
key, Persia,  and  Malaysia;  in  Hayti,  Brazil,  and  the 
Argentine;  on  the  shores  of  all  the  continents  and  the 
islands  of  all  the  seas,  German  merchants  and  German 
money  are  working  twenty-four  hours  a  day  building 
up  that  oversea  empire  of  which  the  Kaiser  dreams. 
The  activities  of  these  pioneers  of  commerce  and  finance 
are  as  varied  as  commerce  and  finance  themselves. 
Their  guttural  voices  are  heard  in  every  market  place; 
their  footsteps  resound  in  every  avenue  of  human  en- 
deavour. Their  holdings  in  Brazil  are  the  size  of  Euro- 
pean kingdoms,  and  so  absolute  has  their  power  be- 
come in  at  least  two  states — Santa  Catharina  and  Rio 
Grande  do  Sul — that  the  Brazilian  Government  has 

167 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

become  seriously  alarmed.  Their  mines  in  Persia  and 
China  and  the  Rand  rival  the  cave  of  Aladdin.  They 
are  completing  a  trunk  line  across  western  Asia  which 
threatens  to  endanger  England's  commercial  supremacy 
in  India;  in  Africa  they  are  pushing  forward  another 
railway  from  the  shores  of  the  Indian  Ocean  to  the  Great 
Lakes  which  will  rival  the  Cape- to- Cairo  system  in 
tapping  the  trade  of  the  Dark  Continent.  They  own  the 
light,  power,  and  transportation  monopolies  of  half  the 
capitals  of  Latin  America.  In  China  the  coal  mines  and 
railways  of  the  great  province  of  Shantung  are  in  their 
hands.  They  work  tea  plantations  in  Ceylon,  tobacco 
plantations  in  Cuba  and  Sumatra,  coffee  plantations  in 
Guatemala,  rubber  plantations  in  the  Congo,  hemp 
plantations  in  East  Africa,  and  cotton  plantations  in 
the  Delta  of  the  Nile.  Their  argosies,  flying  the  house 
flags  of  the  Hamburg  American,  the  North  German 
Lloyd,  the  German  East  Africa,  the  Deutsche  Levante, 
and  a  score  of  other  lines,  carry  German  goods  to  Ger- 
man warehouses  in  the  world's  remotest  corners,  while 
German  war-ships  are  constantly  aprowl  all  up  and 
down  the  Seven  Seas,  ready  to  protect  the  interests 
thus  created  by  the  menace  of  their  guns. 

Back  of  the  German  miners  and  traders  and  rail- 
way builders  are  the  great  German  banks,  which,  when 
all  is  said  and  done,  are  the  real  exploiters  of  Germany's 
interests  oversea.  So  completely  are  the  foreign  in- 
terests of  the  nation  in  their  hands  that  there  is  no  rea- 
son to  doubt  the  story  that  the  Emperor,  when  warned 
by  the  great  bankers  whom  he  had  summoned  to  a 

168 


THE   SPIKED   HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

conference  over  the  ominous  Moroccan  situation  that 
war  with  France  would  endanger,  if  not  destroy,  Ger- 
many's oversea  ambitions,  turned  to  his  ministers  with 
the  remark,  "Then,  gentlemen,  we  must  find  a  peace- 
able solution. "  We  of  the  West  have  not  yet  awakened 
to  a  realisation  of  the  magnitude  of  Germany's  foreign 
interests  or  to  the  almost  sovereign  powers  which  the 
banks  behind  them  exercise  in  certain  quarters  of  the 
world — particularly  in  that  Latin  America  which  we 
have  complacently  regarded  as  securely  within  our  own 
commercial  sphere.  In  Asia  Minor  the  Deutsche  Bank 
not  only  controls  the  great  Anatolian  Railway  system 
but  it  is  building  the  Bagdad  Railway — probably  the 
most  important  of  Germany's  foreign  undertakings — 
these  two  German-owned  systems  providing  a  route  by 
which  German  goods  can  be  carried  over  German  rails 
to  India  more  cheaply  than  England  can  transport  her 
own  goods  to  her  possessions  in  her  own  bottoms.  In 
one  hand  the  Disconto  Bank  Gesellschaft  holds  the 
railway  and  mining  concessions  of  the  Chinese  prov- 
ince of  Shantung,  while  with  the  other  it  reaches  out 
across  the  world  to  grasp  the  railway  system  of  Ven- 
ezuela, it  being  to  enforce  certain  claims  of  this  bank 
that  the  German  gun-boat  Panther — the  same  that  oc- 
cupied Agadir — bombarded  La  Guayra  in  1902  and  as 
a  consequence  brought  the  relations  of  the  United 
States  and  Germany  uncomfortably  close  to  the  break- 
ing-point. Seven  German  banks — the  German- Asi- 
atic Bank,  the  German-Brazilian  Bank,  the  German- 
Orient  Bank,  the  German-Palestine  Bank,  the  Bank  of 

169 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Chile  and  Germany,  the  Bank  of  Central  America,  and 
the  German  Overseas  Bank — devote  themselves  ex- 
clusively to  the  exploitation  of  foreign  concessions, 
either  owning  or  dominating  enterprises  of  every  con- 
ceivable character  in  the  regions  denoted  by  their 
titles  or  lending  financial  assistance  to  German  subjects 
engaged  in  such  undertakings. 

A  few  years  ago,  when  Germany  was  starting  in  the 
race  for  naval  supremacy,  the  Imperial  Admiralty 
issued  a  review  of  Germany's  oversea  interests  for  the 
purpose  of  impressing  the  Reichstag  with  the  necessity 
for  dreadnoughts  and  then  more  dreadnoughts.  Here 
are  some  of  the  figures,  taken  from  the  list  at  random, 
and  the  more  impressive  because  they  are  from  official 
sources  and  because,  since  they  were  published,  they 
have  materially  increased: 

North  Africa $25,000,000 

Egypt 22,500,000 

Liberia 1,250,000 

Zanzibar 1,500,000 

Mozambique 2,750,000 

Madagascar 1,500,000 

British  South  Africa 337,500,000 

Turkey  and  the  Balkans 112,500,000 

British  India  and  Ceylon 27,500,000 

Straits  Settlements 8,750,000 

China 87,500,000 

Mexico 87,500,000 

Venezuela  and  Colombia 312,500,000 

Peru  and  Chile 127,500,000 

Argentine 187,500,000 

Brazil 400,000,000 

And  ttaVendless  caravan  of  figures  represents  but  a  frac- 
tion of  Germany's  transmarine  interests,  remember,  for 

170 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

it  does  not  include  her  colonies  on  both  coasts  of  Africa, 
in  North  China,  and  in  the  South  Seas.  Now,  if  you  will 
again  glance  over  the  above  list  of  Germany's  foreign 
interests,  you  can  hardly  fail  to  be  struck  by  the  fact 
that  by  far  the  greater  part  of  them  are  in  countries 
notorious  for  the  weakness  and  instability  of  their  gov- 
ernments, as,  for  example,  China,  Morocco,  Turkey, 
Liberia,  Mexico,  and  Venezuela;  or  in  countries  which, 
though  possessing  stable  governments,  would  not  be 
strong  enough  successfully  to  resist  German  aggression 
or  German  demands.  In  regions  where  German  settlers 
abound  and  where  German  banks  are  in  financial  con- 
trol it  is  seldom  difficult  for  Germany  to  find  an  excuse 
for  meddling.  It  may  be  that  a  German  settler  is  at- 
tacked, or  a  German  consul  insulted,  or  a  German  bank 
has  difficulty  in  collecting  its  debts.  So  the  slim  cables 
carry  a  dash-dotted  message  to  the  Foreign  Office  in 
Berlin;  instantly  the  cry  goes  up  that  in  Morocco  or 
China  or  Venezuela  or  Hayti  German  "interests"  are 
imperilled;  and  before  the  government  of  the  country 
in  question  realises  that  anything  out  of  the  ordinary 
has  happened  a  cruiser  with  a  German  flag  drooping 
from  her  taffrail  is  lying  off  one  of  its  coast  towns. 
Before  the  silent  menace  of  that  war-ship  is  removed, 
Germany  generally  manages  to  obtain  a  concession 
to  build  a  railway,  or  a  ninety-nine-year  lease  of  a 
coaling-station,  or  the  cession  of  a  strip  of  more  or  less 
valuable  territory,  and  so  goes  merrily  and  steadily  on 
the  work  of  building  up  a  German  empire  oversea. 

But  these  interests,  world-wide  though  they  are, 

171 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

fail  to  satisfy  the  German  expansionist  party  whose 
prophet  is  the  Kaiser.  They  demand  something  more 
material  than  figures;  they  would  see  the  German  flag 
floating  over  government  houses  instead  of  warehouses, 
over  fortifications  instead  of  plantations.  They  would 
see  more  of  the  map  of  the  world  painted  in  German 
colours.  But  Germany  was  late  in  getting  into  the  col- 
onising game,  so  that  wherever  she  has  gone  she  has 
found  other  nations  already  in  possession.  In  North 
Africa  her  prospectors  and  concession-hunters  found 
the  French  too  firmly  established  to  be  ousted;  the 
only  territory  left  in  South  Africa  over  which  she  could 
raise  her  flag  was  so  arid  and  worthless  that  neither 
England  nor  Portugal  had  troubled  to  include  it  in  their 
dominions;  though  she  bullied  China  into  leasing  her 
the  port  of  Kiauchau,  the  further  territorial  expansion 
in  the  Celestial  Empire  of  which  she  had  dreamed  was 
halted  by  Russian  jealousy  and  Japanese  ambition; 
around  Latin  America — the  most  enticing  field  of  all — 
stretched  the  protecting  arm  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine 

Now,  these  "Keep  Off  the  Grass"  signs  with  which 
she  was  everywhere  confronted  did  not  improve  Ger- 
many's disposition.  They  made  her  feel  abused  and 
peevish,  and  whenever  she  saw  a  foreign  flag  flying  over 
some  God-forsaken  islet  in  the  Pacific  or  a  stretch  of 
snake-infested  African  jungle,  she  resented  it  deeply 
and  said  that  she  was  being  denied  "a  place  in  the  sun. " 
So  when  France  despatched  an  expedition  to  Fez  in  the 
summer  of  191 1  to  teach  the  Moorish  tribesmen  proper 

respect  for  French  property  and  French  lives,  Germany 

172 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

seized  on  that  action  as  an  excuse  for  occupying  a 
Moroccan  harbour  and  a  strip  of  the  adjacent  coast,  on 
the  pretext  that  her  interests  there  were  being  jeopard- 
ised, and  flatly  refused  to  evacuate  it  unless  France  gave 
her  something  in  return.  I  might  mention,  in  passing, 
that  Germany's  interests  in  Morocco  are  considerably 
more  important  than  is  generally  supposed,  the  powerful 
Westphalian  firm  of  Mannesmann  Brothers  having 
obtained  from  Sultan  Abdul  Aziz  extensive  mining, 
ranching,  and  plantation  concessions  in  that  portion  of 
his  empire  which  the  German  newspapers  proceeded 
to  prematurely  dub  "West  Marokko  Deutsch."  The 
rich  iron  deposits  in  this  region,  when  taken  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  alarming  decrease  of  the  ore  supply  in  the 
German  mines  and  the  consequent  shortage  which 
threatens  the  German  iron  and  steel  industry,  un- 
doubtedly provided  one  of  the  reasons  underlying  the 
Kaiser's  interference  with  the  French  programme  in 
Morocco. 

France,  knowing  full  well  the  enormous  political 
and  commercial  value  of  Morocco,  and  determined  to 
complete  her  African  empire  by  its  acquirement,  after 
months  of  haggling,  during  which  battle-ships  and  army 
corps  were  moved  about  like  chessmen,  consented  to 
compensate  Germany  by  ceding  her  a  slice  of  the  colony 
of  French  Equatorial  Africa,  better  known,  perhaps,  as 
the  French  Congo.*  It  was  a  good  bargain  that  France 
made,  too,  for  she  took  an  empire  and  gave  a  jungle  in 

♦Germany  has  given  her  new  colony  the  official  designation  "New 
Kamerun." 

173 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

exchange.  But  Germany  made  the  better  bargain,  it 
seems  to  me,  for  by  agreeing  to  a  French  protector- 
ate over  Morocco  she  obtained  one  hundred  thousand 
square  miles  of  African  soil  without  its  costing  her  a  foot 
of  land  or  a  dollar  in  exchange.  From  the  view-point 
of  the  world  at  large,  Germany  emerged  from  the  Mo- 
roccan imbroglio  with  a  good-sized  strip  of  equatorial 
territory,  presumably  rich  in  undeveloped  resources, 
certainly  rich  in  savages,  snakes,  and  fevers,  and,  every- 
thing considered,  of  very  doubtful  value.  But  to  Ger- 
many this  stretch  of  jungle  land  meant  far  more  than 
that.  It  was  a  territory  which  she  had  wanted,  watched, 
and  waited  for  ever  since  she  entered  the  game  of  co- 
lonial expansion.  It  is  one  of  the  links — in  many  re- 
spects the  most  essential  one — which  she  requires  to 
connect  her  scattered  possessions  in  the  Dark  Conti- 
nent and  to  bar  the  advance  of  her  great  rival,  England, 
to  the  northward  by  stretching  an  unbroken  chain  of 
German  colonies  across  Africa  from  coast  to  coast.  The 
acquisition  of  that  piece  of  west-coast  jungle  marked 
the  greatest  stride  which  Germany  has  yet  taken  in  her 
march  toward  an  empire  oversea. 

Heretofore  Germany  has  been  in  much  the  same 
predicament  as  a  boy  who  tries  to  put  a  picture  puzzle 
together  when  some  of  the  pieces  are  missing.  In  Ger- 
many's case  the  missing  pieces  were  held  by  England, 
France,  Belgium,  and  Portugal,  and  they  refused  to  give 
them  up.  If  you  will  open  the  family  atlas  to  the  map 
of  Africa,  you  will  see  that  Germany's  four  colonies  on 
that  continent  are  so  widely  separated  that  their  con- 

i74 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

solidation  is  apparently  out  of  the  question.  Northern- 
most of  all,  and  set  squarely  in  the  middle  of  that  pes- 
tilential coast-line  variously  named  and  noted  for  its 
slaves,  its  ivory,  and  its  gold,  and  aptly  called  "the 
rottenest  coast  in  the  world,"  is  the  colony  of  Togo. 
Approximately  the  size  of  Cuba  and  rich  in  native  prod- 
ucts, it  is  so  remote  from  the  other  German  possessions 
that  its  only  value  is  in  providing  Germany  with  a  quid 
pro  quo  which  she  can  use  in  negotiating  for  some  terri- 
tory more  desirable.  In  the  right  angle  formed  by  the 
Gulf  of  Guinea  is  the  colony  of  Kamerun,  a  rich,  fertile, 
and  exceedingly  unhealthful  possession  about  the  size 
of  Spain.  Though  its  hinterland  reaches  inland  to 
Lake  Tchad,  it  has  hitherto  been  destitute  of  good  har- 
bours or  navigable  rivers,  being  barred  from  the  Niger 
by  British  Nigeria  and  from  the  Congo,  until  the  recent 
territorial  readjustment,  by  French  Equatorial  Africa. 
Follow  the  same  coast-line  twelve  hundred  miles  to 
the  southward  and  you  will  come  to  German  South- 
west Africa,  a  barren,  inhospitable,  sparsely  populated 
land,  stretching  from  a  harbourless  coast  as  far  inland 
as  the  Desert  of  Kalahari.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
continent,  just  south  of  the  Equator,  lies  German  East 
Africa,  almost  twice  the  size  of  the  mother  country 
and  the  largest  and  richest  of  the  Kaiser's  transmarine 
possessions.  The  combined  area  of  these  four  colonies 
is  equal  to  that  of  all  the  States  east  of  the  Mississippi 
put  together;  certainly  a  substantial  foundation  on 
which  to  begin  the  erection  of  an  empire,  especially 
when  it  is  remembered  that  French  Africa,  which  now 

175 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

comprises  forty-five  per  cent  of  the  continent,  is  for  the 
most  part  the  work  of  but  a  single  generation. 

When  Monsieur  Cambon  and  Herr  von  Kiderlein- 
Waechter  put  their  pens  to  the  piece  of  parchment  of 
which  I  have  already  spoken,  the  boundary  of  the  Kam- 
erun  was  automatically  extended  southward  almost 
to  the  Equator  and  eastward  some  hundreds  of  miles  to 
the  Logone  River,  the  apex  of  the  angle  formed  by  the 
meeting  of  these  new  frontiers  touching  the  Congo  River 
and  thereby  bringing  the  Kamerun  into  contact  with  the 
Belgian  Congo.  In  other  words,  Germany's  great  col- 
onies on  either  coast  are  no  longer  separated  by  French 
and  Belgian  territory,  but  by  Belgian  alone — and  Bel- 
gium, remember,  is  both  weak  and  neutral.  Now,  it  is  by 
no  means  beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  Belgium 
might  consent  to  sell  Germany  either  the  whole  or  a 
portion  of  the  Congo,  for  the  financial  difficulties  of 
that  colony  have  been  very  great,  and  it  has  never  been 
able  to  pay  its  way,  its  wants  having  been  supplied 
at  first  by  large  gifts  of  money  from  King  Leopold,  and 
more  recently  by  loans  raised  and  guaranteed  by  Bel- 
gium. This  unsatisfactory  financial  condition  not  hav- 
ing helped  to  popularise  the  Congo  with  the  thrifty 
Belgians,  there  is  considerable  reason  to  believe  that 
the  Brussels  Government  would  lend  an  attentive  ear 
to  any  proposals  which  Germany  might  make  toward 
its  purchase.  England  might  be  expected,  of  course,  to 
oppose  the  sale  of  the  Congo  to  Germany  tooth  and  nail, 
it  being  the  fear  of  just  such  an  eventuality  which  caused 
her  to  seize  on  the  rubber  atrocities  as  ar\  excuse  for  her 

176 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

vigorous  and  persistent  advocacy  of  the  international- 
isation  of  the  Congo.  Though  France  holds  the  rever- 
sionary rights  to  the  Congo,  there  are  no  grounds  for 
believing  that  she  would  place  any  serious  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  its  acquisition  by  Germany,  for  she  has  given 
it  to  be  understood  that  she  intends  devoting  her  ener- 
gies henceforward  to  the  exploitation  of  her  enormous 
possessions  in  North  Africa.  Assuming,  then — and  these 
assumptions,  believe  me,  are  not  nearly  so  chimer- 
ical as  they  may  sound — that  the  Belgian  Government 
should  sell  Germany  all  or  a  part  of  the  Congo,  Ger- 
many's possessions  would  then  stretch  across  the  con- 
tinent from  coast  to  coast,  comprising  all  that  is  most 
worth  having  in  Equatorial  Africa. 

While  we  are  about  it,  let  us  carry  our  assumptions 
one  step  farther  and  take  it  for  granted  that  Portugal 
could  be  induced  to  dispose  of  her  great  west-coast 
colony  of  Angola,  to  which  Germany  already  possesses 
the  reversionary  rights.  It  is  not  only  possible,  but 
probable,  that  a  good  round  offer  of  money,  or  perhaps 
another  Agadir  performance,  based  on  some  easily 
found  pretext  and  backed  up  by  German  war-ships  in 
the  Tagus,  would  induce  the  Lisbon  Government  to 
hand  over  Angola,  along  with  its  fevers  and  its  slavery, 
to  the  Germans.  Portugal  is  bitterly  poor,  its  govern- 
ment is  weak  and  vacillating,  and  a  long  list  of  failures 
has  left  the  people  with  little  stomach  for  colonisation. 
The  Portuguese  Republic  has  few  friends  among  the 
monarchical  nations  of  Europe  and  could  count  on 
scant  aid  from  them  in  resisting  Teutonic  coercion.    It 

i77 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

is  asserted  in  diplomatic  circles,  indeed,  that  the  ink  on 
the  Morocco-Equatoria  Convention  was  scarcely  dry- 
before  the  German  minister  in  Lisbon  had  opened  secret 
pourparlers  with  the  Portuguese  Foreign  Office  with  a 
view  to  the  purchase  of  both  Angola  and  the  east-coast 
colony  of  Mozambique.*  The  acquisition  of  Angola 
would  supply  Germany  with  the  final  link  needed  to 
unite  her  colonies  in  East,  West,  and  Southwest  Africa, 
thus  giving  her  an  African  empire  second  in  size  only  to 
that  of  France.  Far-fetched  and  far-distant  as  all  this 
may  sound,  I  have  but  roughly  sketched  for  you  that 
imperial  dream  for  whose  fulfilment  the  Kaiser  and 
his  people  are  indefatigably  working  and  confidently 
waiting. 

Very  few  people  are  aware  that,  as  long  ago  as 
1898,  England  and  Germany  concluded  a  secret  agree- 
ment which  definitely  provides  for  the  eventual  dis- 
position of  Portugal's  African  possessions.  Of  its  true 
history  and  scope,  however,  little  has  ever  leaked  out. 
It  grew  out  of  Joseph  Chamberlain's  restless  and  am- 
bitious schemes  for  the  consolidation  of  British  domin- 
ion in  Africa.  Appreciating,  early  in  the  Boer  War, 
that  England's  success  in  that  struggle  would  largely 
depend  upon  Germany  remaining  strictly  neutral,  that 
master  statesman  proposed  to  the  Berlin  Government 
a  plan  the  effect  of  which  was  to  divide  the  reversion  of 
Angola  and  Mozambique  between  Great  Britain  and 

*  Though  commonly  applied  to  the  colony  of  Portuguese  East  Africa, 
the  name  Mozambique  belongs,  strictly  speaking,  only  to  the  northemm  >st 
province  of  that  possession. 

178 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

Germany,  inferentially  leaving  the  former  a  free  hand 
south  of  the  Zambezi.  This  was  the  famous  Secret 
Treaty,  the  final  text  of  which  was  afterward  signed 
by  Lord  Salisbury,  and  it  was  largely  in  virtue  of  this 
agreement  that  England  was  free  from  German  inter- 
ference during  the  Boer  War.  It  is  an  interesting  com- 
ment on  the  ethics  of  international  politics  that  this 
remarkable  agreement  was  concluded  without  any  con- 
sultation of  Portugal,  the  country  the  most  vitally 
concerned.  Delagoa  Bay  is  no  longer  as  imperative  a 
necessity  to  England  as  it  was  in  1898,  at  which  time 
it  was  the  quickest  way  to  reach  the  Transvaal,  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  West  Coast  is  daily  becoming 
more  important  for  strategical  and  commercial  reasons, 
for  the  "Afro"  railway,  of  which  I  have  made  mention 
in  the  chapter  on  Morocco,  will  become  in  the  near 
future  the  great  highway  between  Europe  and  South 
America,  while  the  railway  now  being  built  between 
Benguela  (Lobito  Bay)  and  the  Katanga  region  will 
provide  the  easiest  and  quickest  means  of  communicat- 
ing with  Rhodesia  and  the  Transvaal.  The  terms  of 
the  Anglo-German  Secret  Treaty  are  of  interest,  how- 
ever, as  indicating  how  that  portion  of  the  African  con- 
tinent lying  south  of  the  Congo  will  be  eventually 
parcelled  out,  and  as  showing  the  framework  on  which 
is  being  slowly  but  surely  constructed  Germany's 
African  empire. 

The  erection  of  such  a  German  state  across  the  mid- 
dle of  Africa  would  have  far-reaching  results  in  more 
directions  than  one.    In  the  first  place,  it  would  end 

179 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

forever  England's  long-cherished  ambition  of  eventually 
linking  up  her  Sudanese  and  South  African  possessions 
and  thus  completing  an  "All  Red"  route  from  Cairo  to 
the  Cape.  In  the  second  place,  Germany  is  now  in  a 
position  to  build  her  own  transcontinental  railway — 
from  east  to  west  instead  of  from  north  to  south — on 
German  or  neutral  soil  all  the  way,  thus  removing  the 
completion  of  the  Cape-to-Cairo  system,  even  under 
international  auspices,  to  a  very  distant  day,  and  mak- 
ing Dar-es-Salam  and  Duala,  instead  of  Cape  Town  and 
Alexandria,  the  starting-points  for  those  highways  of 
steel  which  are  destined  to  open  up  inner  Africa. 

It  is  surprising  how  little  even  the  well-informed 
know  of  these  far  places  which  Germany  has  taken  for 
her  own.  Fertile  spots  as  any  upon  earth,  covered 
with  hard-wood  forests  and  watered  by  many  rivers, 
when  seen  from  the  shade  of  an  awning  over  a  ship's 
deck  they  are  as  alluring  as  the  stage  of  a  theatre  set  for 
a  sylvan  opera.  Go  a  thousand  yards  back  from  that 
smiling  coast,  however,  and  the  illusion  disappears,  for 
you  find  a  country  whose  hostile  natives,  savage  beasts, 
and  deadly  fevers  combine  to  make  it  deserving  of  its 
title — "the  white  man's  graveyard."  The  statesmen 
of  the  Wilhelmstrasse  must  have  taken  a  long  look 
into  the  future  when  they  raised  the  German  flag  over 
such  lands  as  these.  The  returns  they  have  yielded 
thus  far  would  have  discouraged  a  man  less  sanguine 
than  William  Hohenzollern.  Though  subsidised  Ger- 
man steam-ships  ply  along  their  coasts,  though  their 
forests  resound  to  the  clank  and  clang  of  German  rail- 

180 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

way-builders'  tools,  though  the  plantations  of  govern- 
ment-assisted settlers  dot  the  back  country,  though  she 
has  spent  on  them  thousands  of  lives  and  millions  of 
marks,  Germany's  only  returns  thus  far  have  been  a  few 
annual  tons  of  ivory,  copra,  and  rubber,  some  excellent 
but  unprofitable  harbours,  and  many  lonely  stations 
where  her  sons  contract  fevers  and  pessimism.  But  I 
would  stake  my  life  that  this  out-of-the-way,  back- 
of-beyond,  sun-blistered,  fever-stricken  German  Africa 
will  be  a  great  colony  some  day. 

From  the  care  with  which  they  are  laid  out,  from 
the  perfection  of  their  sanitary  arrangements,  from  the 
substantiality  of  their  public  buildings  and  official  resi- 
dences and  their  suitability  to  the  climatic  conditions, 
the  travellers  who  confine  their  investigations  to  the 
coast  are  readily  deceived  into  thinking  that  Tanga 
and  Bagamoyo  and  Dar-es-Salam  and  Swakopmund 
and  Duala  are  the  gateways  to  rich  and  prosperous 
colonies.  From  the  very  outset,  however,  the  imperial 
government  based  its  claim  for  popular  support  in  its 
colonial  ventures  upon  the  erroneous  assumption  that 
German  colonies  would  attract  Germans,  and  that  in 
this  way  the  language  of  the  Fatherland  would  be  spread 
abroad  and  eventually  supplant  that  of  Shakespeare. 
The  Germans,  however,  have  stubbornly  refused  to  go 
to  their  own  colonies,  preferring  those  where  English 
is  the  speech  and  where  there  are  fewer  officials  and 
more  freedom.  To-day,  therefore,  you  find  the  model 
German  towns,  so  perfectly  built  that  you  feel  as  though 
you  were  walking  through  a  municipal  exhibition,  al- 

181 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

most  wholly  peopled  by  brass-bound,  hide-bound 
officials,  while  the  German  traders  are  carrying  on 
thriving  businesses  under  the  English  flag  at  Mom- 
basa and  Zanzibar  and  Sierra  Leone. 

Now,  Germany  has  no  one  but  herself  to  blame  for 
this  condition  of  affairs,  having  brought  it  about  by  the 
short-sightedness  of  her  colonial  policy  and  the  harshness 
and  incapacity  of  her  officials.  Intending  to  found  in- 
dustrial colonies,  she  created  military  settlements  in- 
stead, administering  and  exploiting  them,  not  as  if  they 
were  German  lands,  but  as  if  they  were  an  enemy's 
country.  Nothing  emphasises  more  sharply  the  purely 
military  character  of  Germany's  African  colonies  than 
the  fact  that  there  are  seven  soldiers  or  officials  to  every 
German  civilian.  Dwelling  in  idleness,  in  one  of  the 
most  trying  climates  in  the  world,  the  officials  seem  to 
take  a  malicious  satisfaction  in  interfering  with  the  civil 
population,  thus  driving  the  traders — who  form  the 
backbone  of  every  colony — to  take  up  their  residence  in 
English  ports  and  so  paralysing  German  trade.  The 
soldiers,  for  want  of  something  better  to  do,  are  forever 
seeking  advancement  by  making  unnecessary  expedi- 
tions into  the  hinterland  for  the  purpose  of  "punishing" 
the  natives,  thus  causing  them  to  migrate  by  whole- 
sale into  British,  Belgian,  and  even  Portuguese  terri- 
tory, so  that  the  German  colonies  are  left  without  labour 
and  the  plantations  are  consequently  being  ruined. 

The  needless  severity  of  Germany's  colonial  rule 
is  graphically  illustrated  by  the  fact  that  during  191 1 
there  were  14,849  criminal  convictions  in  German  East 

182 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

Africa  alone,  or  one  conviction  to  every  637  natives; 
while  in  the  adjoining  protectorate  of  Uganda,  among 
the  same  type  of  natives  but  under  a  British  administra- 
tion, the  ratio  of  convictions  was  only  one  in  2,047. 
There  is  not  a  town  in  German  East  Africa  where  you 
cannot  see  boys  of  from  eight  to  fourteen  years,  shackled 
together  by  chains  running  from  iron  collar  to  iron  col- 
lar and  guarded  by  soldiers  with  loaded  rifles,  doing  the 
work  of  men  under  a  deadly  sun.  Natives  with  bleed- 
ing backs  are  constantly  making  their  way  into  British 
and  Belgian  territory  with  tales  of  maltreatment  by 
German  planters,  while  stories  of  German  tyranny,  bru- 
tality, and  corruption — of  some  instances  of  which  I  was 
myself  a  witness — form  staple  topics  of  conversation 
on  every  club  veranda  and  steamer's  deck  along  these 
coasts.  In  German  Southwest  Africa  the  dearth  of 
labour,  owing  to  the  practical  extermination  of  the 
Herero  nation  in  Germany's  last  "little  war"  in  that 
colony,  has  become  a  serious  and  pressing  problem.  In 
a  single  campaign — which  cost  Germany  five  hundred 
million  marks  and  the  lives  of  two  thousand  soldiers, 
and  which  could  have  been  avoided  altogether  by  a 
little  tact  and  kindness — half  the  total  population  of 
the  colony  was  killed  in  battle  or  driven  into  the  desert 
to  perish.  That  is  why  the  builders  of  the  Swakop- 
mund-Otavi  Railway  in  German  Southwest  Africa — the 
longest  two-foot-gauge  line  in  the  world — have  to  send 
to  Europe  for  their  labour.  Until  Germany  makes  a 
radical  change  in  her  methods  of  colonial  administra- 
tion, and  until  she  learns  that  traders  and  labourers  are 

183 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

more  essential  to  a  colony's  prosperity  than  pompous 
and  domineering  officials,  her  colonial  accounts  will  con- 
tinue to  stand  heaviest  on  the  debit  side  of  the  ledger. 
Successful  colonial  administration  in  Africa,  as  in 
all  tropical  countries,  is  largely  a  matter  of  tempera- 
ment, and  the  stolid  sons  of  the  Fatherland  seem, 
strangely  enough,  to  be  more  quickly  affected  by  the 
demoralising  climate  and  to  be  irritated  more  easily 
than  either  the  English  or  the  French.  The  English- 
man's sense  of  justice  and  the  Frenchman's  sense  of 
humour  are  their  chief  assets  as  successful  colonisers 
and  rulers  of  alien  peoples,  but  the  German  colonial 
official,  who  is  generally  serious  by  nature  and  almost 
always  domineering  as  the  result  of  his  training,  pos- 
sesses neither  of  these  invaluable  attributes  and  is  heav- 
ily handicapped  in  consequence.  It  is  no  easy  task  with 
which  he  is  confronted,  remember.  The  loneliness  and 
the  privations  of  the  white  man's  life,  and  the  debility 
that  comes  from  the  heat  and  the  rains  and  the  fevers, 
when  combined  with  the  strain  of  governing  and  educat- 
ing an  inconceivably  lazy,  stubborn,  stupid,  and  in- 
tractable people,  make  the  job  of  an  African  official  one 
of  the  most  trying  in  the  world.  The  loneliness  and  the 
climate  seem  to  grip  a  German  as  they  never  do  an 
Englishman,  and  he  becomes  irritable  and  ugly  and 
unreasonably  annoyed  by  trifles,  so  that  when  a  native 
fails  to  get  out  of  his  way  quickly  enough,  or  to  salute 
him  with  the  punctiliousness  which  he  considers  his 
due,  he  flies  into  a  rage  and  orders  the  man  to  be  flogged. 
The  native  goes  back  to  his  village  with  a  bleeding  back 

184 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

and  hatred  in  his  heart,  and,  as  likely  as  not,  a  bloody, 
costly,  and  troublesome  native  uprising  ensues.  The 
African  native  is,  after  all,  nothing  but  an  overgrown 
and  very  aggravating  child,  and  his  upbringing  is  a  job 
for  school-teachers  instead  of  drill  sergeants,  and  the 
sooner  the  imperial  government  appreciates  that  fact 
the  better. 

I  went  to  German  East  Africa,  which  is  the  Kaiser's 
star  colony,  expecting  to  be  deeply  impressed;  I  came 
away  deeply  disappointed.  It  is  only  about  fifty  miles 
from  Zanzibar  across  to  Dar-es-Salam,  the  capital  of 
the  colony,  but  the  local  steamer,  which  is  the  size  of  a 
Hudson  River  tugboat  and  rolls  horribly  on  the  slightest 
provocation,  manages  to  use  up  the  better  part  of  a 
day  in  making  the  trip.  Seen  from  the  steamer's  deck, 
Dar-es-Salam  presents  one  of  the  most  enchanting  pic- 
tures that  I  know,  and  every  one  who  goes  ashore  there 
does  so  with  high  expectations.  Imagine,  if  you  can, 
a  city  of  two  hundred  thousand  people,  with  the  im- 
posing, red-roofed  schools  and  churches  and  hospitals 
and  barracks  and  municipal  buildings  of,  say,  Diissel- 
dorf ,  and  the  white-walled,  broad-verandaed,  bungalow 
dwellings  of  southern  California;  with  concrete  wharves 
and  cement  sidewalks  and  beautifully  macadamised 
roads  and  many  public  parks:  imagine  all  this,  I  say, 
dropped  down  in  the  midst  of  a  palm  grove  on  one  of  the 
hottest  and  unhealthiest  coasts  in  the  world — that  is 
Dar-es-Salam.  The  hotel  is,  barring  the  one  at  Kandy 
in  Ceylon  and  another  at  Ancon  in  the  Canal  Zone,  the 
best  and  most  beautiful  tropical  hostelry  I  have  ever 

185 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

seen,  but,  as  it  is  owned  and  run  by  the  government, 
for  the  benefit  of  its  officials,  its  manager,  a  blond,  florid- 
faced,  pompadoured  Prussian,  was  as  independent  as  a 
hotel  clerk  in  a  city  where  a  presidential  convention  is 
going  on.  Just  as  in  the  other  German  colonies,  I  found 
East  Africa  to  be  suffering  from  a  severe  attack  of  mili- 
tarism. I  saw  more  sentries  and  patrols  and  guards 
during  my  four  days'  stay  in  Dar-es-Salam  than  I  did  in 
Constantinople  during  the  Turkish  Revolution.  I  was 
lulled  to  sleep  by  regimental  bugles  and  I  was  awakened 
by  them  again  at  daybreak,  and  I  never  set  foot  out  of 
doors  without  meeting  a  column  of  native  soldiery, 
their  black  faces  peering  out  stolidly  from  beneath  the 
sun-aprons,  their  spindle  shanks  encased  in  spiral 
puttees,  their  feet  rising  and  falling  in  the  senseless 
"parade  step"  in  time  to  the  monotonous  "rechts! 
links!  rechts!  links!"  of  the  German  sergeant.  But 
what  struck  me  most  forcibly  about  Dar-es-Salam  was 
that  it  appeared  to  have  no  business.  Apparently  the 
soldiers  had  frightened  it  away.  The  harbours  of  Mom- 
basa and  Zanzibar  and  Beira  and  Lourenco  Marques 
are  alive  with  steamers  taking  on  or  discharging  cargo 
(and  quite  two  out  of  three  of  them  fly  the  German  flag), 
and  their  streets  are  lined  with  offices  and  warehouses 
and  "factories"  (over  the  doors  of  many  of  which  are 
signs  bearing  German  names),  and  their  wharves  are 
piled  high  with  bales  of  merchandise  going  to  or  com- 
ing from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth;  but  in  the  harbour 
of  Dar-es-Salam,  as  in  all  the  other  German  harbours 

I  visited,  the  only  vessels  are  white  German  gun-boats 

186 


Warundi  warriors.     German  East  Africa. 


ggMfcv     :W^M 

SPtv     m&<_  •:.;.  ■..  j.   ^  ■    .;;; 

1*3 

f^'^       r    ''>     *    ' 

Ife 

ir  ■    •  'V 

jpfc  ^« 

'-' 

.-..;,  v .  ^ 

1 

$■■':/■.,',"' 

Native  infantry.    German  East  Africa.     A  few  years  ago  these  men  were  just  such  savages  as  those 

shown  above. 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  WAR  LORD  IN  GERMAN  AFRICA. 


THE  SPIKED  HELMET  IN  AERICA 

or  rusty  German  tramps;  its  streets  are  lined  with 
government  offices  instead  of  business  offices;  on  its 
wharves  are  a  few  puncheons  of  palm-oil,  or  other 
products  of  the  bush,  and  nothing  more. 

However  much  the  administration  of  the  German 
colonies  may  be  open  to  criticism,  and  however  slow 
they  may  have  been  in  commercial  development,  I  have 
nothing  but  praise  and  admiration  for  the  accomplish- 
ments of  their  railway-builders.  From  Dar-es-Salam 
I  travelled  inland  by  railway  motor-car  nearly  to  Kila- 
matinde,  a  distance  of  three  hundred  and  seventy  miles, 
through  one  of  the  most  savage  regions  in  Africa,  over 
one  of  the  best  graded  and  ballasted  roadbeds  I  have 
ever  seen.  The  line  is  now  being  pushed  forward  from 
Kilamatinde  toward  Ujiji,  on  Lake  Tanganyika,  which 
it  will  reach,  so  the  chief  engineer  assured  me,  by  the 
summer  of  19 14.  From  Ujiji,  which,  by  the  way,  is  the 
place  where  Stanley  discovered  Livingstone,  a  steamer 
service  will  be  inaugurated  to  Albertville,  on  the  Bel- 
gian shore  of  the  lake,  whence  a  line  is  under  construc- 
tion to  the  navigable  waters  of  the  Lualaba,  which  is 
one  of  the  chief  tributaries  of  the  Congo;  while  an- 
other line  of  steamers  will  ply  between  Ujiji  and  Kituta, 
in  northeastern  Rhodesia,  which  point  the  British 
Cape-to-Cairo  system  is  approaching.  By  the  close 
of  1 9 14,  in  all  probability  therefore,  the  traveller  who 
lands  at  Dar-es-Salam  will  be  able  to  travel  by  train, 
with  the  passage  across  Lake  Tanganyika  as  the  only 
interruption,  to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  or  by  train 
and  river  steamer  to  the  mouth  of  the  Congo,  and  in 

187 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

perfect  comfort  and  safety  all  the  way.  As  Walfish 
Bay,  the  only  harbour  in  Southwest  Africa  worthy  of 
the  name,  belongs  to  England,  the  Germans,  finding 
themselves  unable  to  buy  it  and  appreciating  that  a 
harbourless  colony  is  all  but  worthless,  promptly  set 
to  work  and  built  themselves  artificial  harbours  at 
Swakopmund  and  at  Liideritz  Bay,  though  at  appalling 
cost.  That  Germany  is  exceedingly  anxious  to  acquire 
Walfish  Bay,  and  that  she  stands  ready  to  make  almost 
any  reasonable  concession  to  obtain  it,  there  is  little 
doubt.  The  mere  fact  that  Walfish  Bay  is  owned  by 
England  is  a  source  of  constant  aggravation  to  the  Ger- 
mans, for  it  lies  squarely  in  the  middle  of  their  South- 
west African  coast-line,  its  roomy  roadstead  and  deep 
anchorage  being  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  German  port 
of  Liideritz  Bay,  which  is  being  rapidly  sanded  up,  and 
that  of  Swakopmund,  a  harbour  on  which  the  Berlin 
Government  has  already  thrown  away  several  millions 
of  marks.  Liideritz  Bay  is  already  connected  with  the 
inland  town  of  Keetmanshoop  by  three  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  of  narrow-gauge  line,  and  plans  are  now  under 
consideration  for  pushing  this  southeastward  so  as  to 
link  up  with  the  South  African  system  near  Kimberley, 
while  from  Swakopmund  another  iron  highway,  four 
hundred  miles  long,  gives  access  to  the  Otavi  copper- 
mining  country  and  will  doubtless  be  extended,  in  the 
not  far-distant  future,  to  the  Rhodesian  border,  tapping 
the  main  fine  of  the  Cape-to-Cairo  system  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Victoria  Falls. 

I  have  laid  considerable  stress  upon  the  subject  of 

1 88 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Powell  travelling  by  railway  motor-car  in  German  Africa. 


A  way-station  on  the  line  of  the  German  East  African  Railway. 
RAILROADING  THROUGH  A  JUNGLE. 


THE   SPIKED   HELMET  IN  AFRICA 

railways,  because  it  seems  to  me  that  in  them  lies  the 
chief  hope  of  the  German  colonies,  for  wherever  the 
railway  goes  there  goes  civilisation.  Throughout  the 
vast  and  potentially  rich  regions  thus  being  opened  up 
by  the  locomotive  the  imperial  government  is  pour- 
ing out  money  unstintingly  in  the  construction  of  roads, 
bridges,  and  reservoirs,  the  sinking  of  artesian  wells,  the 
establishment  of  telegraph  lines  and  postal  routes,  the 
erection  of  schools  and  hospitals,  in  furnishing  trees  to 
the  planters  and  machinery  and  live-stock  to  the  farmers, 
and  in  assisting  immigration.  So,  if  keeping  everlast- 
ingly at  it  brings  success,  I  cannot  but  feel  that  the  day 
will  come  when  these  officers  and  officials,  these  soldiers 
and  settlers,  these  traders  and  tribesmen,  will  find  their 
places  and  play  their  parts  in  the  Kaiser's  imperial 
scheme  of  a  new  and  greater  Germany  over  the  sea. 


i$q 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"ALL  ABOARD  FOR  CAPE  TOWN!" 

IN  Bulawayo,  which  is  in  Matabeleland,  stands  one  of 
the  most  significant  and  impressive  statues  in  the 
world.  From  the  middle  of  that  dusty,  sun-baked 
thoroughfare  known  as  Main  Street  rises  the  bronze 
image  of  a  bulky,  thick-set,  shabbily  clad  man,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  his  feet  planted  firmly  apart,  as 
he  stares  in  profound  meditation  northward  over  Africa. 
Cecil  John  Rhodes  was  the  dreamer's  name,  and  in  his 
vision  he  saw  twin  lines  of  steel  stretching  from  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope  straight  away  to  the  shores  of  the  Med- 
iterranean; a  railway,  to  use  his  own  words,  "cutting 
Africa  through  the  centre  and  picking  up  trade  all  the 
way. " 

If  ever  a  man  was  a  strange  blending  of  dreamer 
and  materialist,  of  Utopian  and  buccaneer,  of  Clive  and 
Hastings  with  Hawkins  and  Drake,  it  was  Cecil  Rhodes. 
In  other  words,  he  dreamed  great  dreams  and  let  no 
scruples  stand  in  the  way  of  their  fulfilment.  Having 
trekked  over  nearly  the  whole  of  that  vast  territory  that 
stretches  northward  from  the  Orange  and  the  Vaal  to 
the  shores  of  Lake  Tanganyika,  his  imagination  saw  in 
this  fertile,  sparsely  settled  country  virgin  soil  for  the 
building  up  of  a  new  and  greater  Britain.  The  pre- 
dominance of  the  British  in  Egypt  and  in  South  Africa, 

190 


"ALL  ABOARD  FOR  CAPE  TOWN!" 

and  the  fact  that  the  territory  under  British  control 
stretched  with  but  a  single  break  from  the  mouths  of  the 
Nile  to  Table  Bay,  gave  rise  in  the  great  empire-builder's 
mind  to  the  project  of  a  trunk-line  railway  "from  the 
Cape  to  Cairo, "  and  under  the  British  flag  all  the  way. 
Though  Rhodes's  dream  of  an  "All  Red"  railway  was 
rudely  shattered  by  the  Convention  of  1889,  which  al- 
lowed Germany  to  stretch  a  barrier  across  the  continent 
from  the  Indian  Ocean  to  the  Congo  State,  he  never 
abandoned  the  hope  that  a  British  zone  would  eventu- 
ally be  acquired  through  German  East  Africa,  either  by 
treaty  or  purchase,  even  going  so  far  as  to  open  negoti- 
ations with  the  Kaiser  to  this  end  on  his  own  initiative. 
It  was  a  picturesque  vision,  said  the  men  to  whom 
he  confided  his  dream,  but  impractical  and  impossible, 
for  in  those  days  the  line  from  Alexandria  to  Assuan  and 
another  from  Cape  Town  to  Kimberley  practically  com- 
prised the  railway  system  of  the  continent,  and  five 
thousand  miles  of  unmapped  forest,  desert,  and  jungle, 
filled  with  hostile  natives,  savage  beasts,  and  deadly 
fevers,  lay  between.  But  the  man  who  had  added  to 
the  British  Empire  a  territory  greater  than  France,  Ger- 
many, Austria-Hungary,  and  Italy  combined;  who  had 
organised  the  corporation  controlling  the  South  African 
diamond  fields;  who  had  put  down  a  formidable  native 
uprising  by  going  unarmed  and  unaccompanied  into 
the  rebel  camp;  and  who  was  responsible,  more  than 
any  other  person,  for  the  Boer  War,  was  not  of  the  stamp 
which  is  daunted  by  either  pessimistic  predictions  or 
obvious  obstacles. 

191 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

It  was  a  slow  and  disheartening  business  at  first, 
this  building  of  a  railway  with  a  soul-inspiring  name. 
The  discovery  of  the  diamond  fields  had  already  brought 
the  line  up  to  Kimberley;  the  finding  of  gold  carried 
it  northward  again  to  the  Rand;  the  opening  up  of 
Rhodesia  led  the  iron  highway  on  to  Bulawayo,  and 
there  it  stopped,  apparently  for  good.  But  Rhodes 
was  undiscouraged.  He  felt  that  to  push  the  railway 
northward  from  Bulawayo  to  the  southern  shores  of 
Lake  Tanganyika  was  an  obvious  and  necessary  enter- 
prise— the  actual  proof,  as  it  were,  of  the  British  occu- 
pation. But  the  Boer  War  was  scarcely  over,  the 
national  purse  was  drained  almost  dry,  and  even  the 
most  optimistic  financiers  shrank  from  the  enormous 
expense  and  problematical  success  of  building  a  railway 
into  the  heart  of  a  savage  and  unknown  country. 

Finally  Rhodes  turned  to  the  imperial  government 
for  assistance  in  this  imperial  enterprise,  for  the  man 
who  had  added  Zululand,  Bechuanaland,  Matabele- 
land,  Mashonaland,  Barotseland,  and  Nyasaland  to 
the  empire  felt  that  the  empire  owed  him  something 
in  return.  He  first  laid  his  scheme  before  Lord  Salis- 
bury, then  prime  minister,  who  said  that  nothing  could 
be  done  until  he  had  a  closer  estimate  of  the  expense. 
Returning  to  Central  Africa,  Rhodes  had  a  flying  sur- 
vey of  the  route  made  in  double-quick  time,  and  with 
the  figures  in  his  pocket  hastened  back  to  London. 
This  time  the  premier  sent  him  to  see  Sir  Michael  Hicks- 
Beach,  the  chancellor  of  the  exchequer.  Hicks-Beach, 
who  was  notorious  for  his  parsimony  in  the  expenditure 

192 


"ALL  ABOARD  FOR  CAPE  TOWN!" 

of  national  funds,  was  frigid  and  discouraging,  but 
finally  relaxed  enough  to  say:  "Get  a  proper  survey 
made  of  your  proposed  railway,  with  estimates  drawn 
up  by  responsible  engineers,  and  if  the  figure  is  not  too 
unreasonable  we  will  see  what  can  be  done. "  Fortified 
with  this  shred  of  hope,  Rhodes  again  betook  himself 
to  the  country  north  of  the  Zambezi,  and,  after  months 
of  work,  hardship,  and  privation,  facing  death  from 
native  spears,  poisonous  snakes,  and  the  sleeping-sick- 
ness, his  men  weakened  by  malaria  and  his  animals 
killed  by  the  dreaded  tsetse-fly,  he  returned  to  England 
and  presented  his  revised  surveys  and  estimates  to 
the  chancellor  of  the  exchequer.  That  immaculately 
clad  statesman  negligently  twirled  his  eye-glass  on  its 
string  as  he  regarded  with  obvious  disfavour  the  fever- 
sunken  cheeks  and  unkempt  appearance  of  the  pioneer. 
"Really,  Mr.  Rhodes,"  he  remarked  coldly,  "I  fear  it  is 
quite  out  of  the  question  for  her  Majesty's  government 
to  lend  your  scheme  its  countenance  or  assistance." 
It  is  a  pleasingly  human  touch  that  as  the  indignant 
empire-builder  went  out  of  the  minister's  room  he 
slammed  the  door  so  that  the  pictures  rattled  on  the 
wall. 

After  dinner  that  night  Rhodes  strolled  over  to  see 
a  friend  of  Kimberley  days,  a  Hebrew  financier  named 
Alfred  Beit,  in  whom  he  found  a  sympathetic  listener. 
As  Rhodes  took  his  hat  to  go,  Beit  casually  remarked, 
"Look  here,  Rhodes,  you'll  want  a  start.  Four  and  a 
half  million  pounds  is  a  big  sum  to  raise.  We'll  do  half 
a  million  of  it,  Wernher  [his  partner]  and  I."    That 

i93 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

meant  success.  Though  ministers  of  the  Crown  turned 
a  cold  shoulder  to  the  great  imperialist  who  came  to 
them  with  a  great  imperial  enterprise,  help  came  from 
two  German  Jews  who  had  become  naturalised  English- 
men. The  next  day  the  City  brought  the  total  up  to 
a  million  and  a  hah,  and  within  little  more  than  a  fort- 
night the  entire  four  and  a  hah  millions  were  subscribed, 
the  three  names,  Rhodes,  Beit,  and  Wernher,  being 
accepted  by  the  man  in  the  street  as  sufficient  guarantee 
of  success.  It  was  in  this  fashion  that  Cecil  Rhodes 
raised  the  money  for  another  great  stride  in  his  railway 
march  northward. 

By  1904  the  road  had  progressed  as  far  as  the  Vic- 
toria Falls  of  the  Zambezi,  where  it  crosses  the  river  on  a 
wonderful  steel-arch  bridge — the  highest  in  the  world — 
its  span,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  frosted  cobweb, 
rising  four  hundred  and  twenty  feet  above  the  angry 
waters.  "I  want  the  bridge  to  cross  the  river  so  close 
to  the  falls,"  directed  Rhodes,  "that  the  travellers 
will  have  the  spray  in  their  faces."  "That  is  impossi- 
ble," objected  the  engineers.  "What  you  ask  cannot 
be  done. "  "  Then  I  will  find  some  one  who  can  do  it, " 
said  Rhodes — and  he  did.  The  bridge  was  built  where 
he  wanted  it,  and  as  the  Zambezi  Express  rolls  out  above 
the  torrent  the  passengers  have  to  close  the  windows  to 
keep  from  being  drenched  with  spray.  By  1906  the 
rail-head  had  been  pushed  forward  to  Broken  Hill,  a 
mining  centre  in  northern  Rhodesia;  three  years  later 
found  it  at  Bwana  M'kubwa,  on  the  Congo  border. 
Here  the  task  of  construction  was  taken  up  by  the 

194 


"ALL  ABOARD  FOR  CAPE  TOWN!" 

Katanga  Railway  Company,  and  in  February,  191 1, 
freight  and  passenger  trains  were  in  operation  straight 
through  to  Elisabethville,  in  the  heart  of  the  Belgian 
Congo,  two  thousand  three  hundred  and  sixteen  miles 
north  of  Cape  Town  and  only  two  hundred  and  eighty 
miles  from  the  southern  end  of  Lake  Tanganyika. 

As  you  sit  on  the  observation  platform  of  your 
electric-lighted  sleeping-car,  anywhere  along  that  sec- 
tion of  the  "Cape-to-Cairo"  between  Cape  Town  and 
the  Zambezi,  you  rub  your  eyes  incredulously  as  you 
watch  the  rolling,  verdure-clad  plains  stretching  away 
to  the  foot-hills  of  distant  ranges,  and  note  the  entire 
absence  of  those  dense  forests  and  steaming  jungles 
which  have  always  been  associated,  in  the  minds  of 
most  of  us,  with  Central  Africa.  The  more  you  see 
of  this  open,  homely,  rather  monotonous  country  the 
harder  it  becomes  for  you  to  convince  yourself  that  you 
are  really  in  the  heart  of  that  mysterious,  storied  Dark 
Continent  and  not  back  in  America  again. 

And  the  illusion  is  completed  by  the  people,  for  the 
only  natives  you  see  are  careless,  happy,  decently  clad 
darkies  who  might  have  come  straight  from  the  levees 
of  Vicksburg  or  New  Orleans,  while  on  every  station 
platform  are  groups  of  fine,  bronze-faced,  up-standing 
fellows  in  corded  riding-breeches  and  brown  boots,  their 
flannel  shirts  open  at  the  neck,  their  broad-brimmed 
hats  cocked  rakishly — just  such  types,  indeed,  as  were 
common  beyond  the  Mississippi  twenty  years  ago,  be- 
fore store  clothes  and  the  motor-car  had  spoiled  the 
picturesqueness  of  our  own  frontier. 

19s 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

North  of  the  Zambezi  it  is  a  different  story,  how- 
ever, for  there  it  is  frontier  still,  with  many  of  a  frontier's 
drawbacks,  for  the  prices  of  necessities  are  exorbitant 
and  of  luxuries  fantastic;  skilled  workmen  can  com- 
mand almost  any  wages  they  may  ask,  and  common 
labour  is  both  scarce  and  poor.  The  miner,  the  scien- 
tifically trained  farmer,  and  the  skilled  workman  have 
rich  opportunities  in  this  quarter  of  Africa,  however, 
for  the  mineral  wealth  is  amazing,  much  of  the  soil  is 
excellent,  and  civilisation  is  advancing  over  a  great  area 
with  three-league  boots. 

For  excitement,  variety,  and  picturesqueness  I 
doubt  if  the  journey  through  Barotseland  and  the 
Katanga  district  of  the  Congo  can  be  equalled  on  any 
railway  in  the  world.  It  is  true  that  the  Uganda  Rail- 
way— which,  by  the  way,  does  not  touch  Uganda  at  all 
— has  been  better  advertised,  but  in  quantity  of  game 
and  facilities  for  hunting  it  the  territory  through  which 
it  runs  is  no  whit  superior  to  that  traversed  by  the 
"  Cape-to-Cairo. "  Stroll  a  mile  up  or  down  the  Zambezi 
from  the  railway  bridge  and  you  can  see  hippos  as  easily 
as  you  can  at  the  Zoo  in  Central  Park;  in  Northwest 
Rhodesia  herds  of  bush-buck,  zebras,  and  ostriches 
scamper  away  at  sight  of  the  train;  and  as  you  lie  in 
your  sleeping-berth  at  night,  while  the  train  halts  on 
lonely  sidings,  you  can  hear  the  roar  of  lions  and  see 
the  gleam  of  the  camp-fires  by  means  of  which  the 
railway  employees  keep  them  away.  On  one  occasion, 
when  our  train  was  lying  on  a  siding  south  of  the 
Zambezi,   the   conductor  of  the  dining-car  suddenly 

196 


"ALL  ABOARD  FOR  CAPE  TOWN!" 

exclaimed,  "Look  there,  gentlemen — look  over  there!" 
His  excitement  was  justified,  for  from  over  a  screen  of 
bushes,  scarcely  a  biscuit's  throw  away,  a  herd  of  five 
giraffes  craned  their  preposterous  necks  and  peered  at 
us  curiously.  Once,  when  I  was  travelling  through 
Northwest  Rhodesia,  our  engine  struck  a  bull  elephant 
which  had  decided  to  contest  the  right  of  way.  As  the 
train  was  running  at  full  speed,  both  engine  and  ele- 
phant went  off  the  track.  Returning  that  way  some 
days  later,  we  noted  that  the  local  station-master  had 
scraped  the  gargantuan  skull  to  the  bone,  filled  it  with 
earth,  and  set  it  on  the  station  platform  as  a  jardiniere 
to  grow  geraniums  in.    He  was  an  ingenious  fellow. 

From  the  Cairo  end,  meanwhile,  the  northern  sec- 
tion of  the  great  transcontinental  system  was  being 
pushed  steadily,  if  slowly,  southward.  The  difficulties 
of  river  transportation  experienced  by  the  two  Sudanese 
expeditions  had  proved  conclusively  that  if  the  Sudan 
was  ever  to  be  opened  up  to  European  exploitation  it 
must  be  by  rail  rather  than  by  river.  It  was  the  Kha- 
lifa who  was  unconsciously  responsible  for  the  rapid 
completion  of  much  of  the  Sudanese  section  of  the 
"  Cape-to-Cairo, "  for,  in  order  to  come  to  hand-grips 
with  him,  Kitchener  and  his  soldiers  pushed  the  railway 
down  the  desert  to  Khartoum  at  record  speed,  laying 
close  on  two  miles  of  track  between  each  sunrise  and 
sunset.  There  it  halted  for  a  number  of  years ;  but  after 
the  British  had  done  their  work,  and  Khartoum  had 
been  transformed  from  a  town  of  blood,  lust,  and  fa- 
naticism into  a  city  with  broad,  shaded  streets,  along 

197 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

which  stalks  law  and  order  in  the  khaki  tunic  of  a  Sudan- 
ese policeman,  the  railway-building  fever,  which  affects 
some  men  as  irresistibly  as  the  Wanderlust  does  others, 
took  hold  of  Those  Who  Have  the  Say,  and  the  line  was 
again  pushed  southward,  along  the  banks  of  the  Blue 
Nile,  to  Sennar,  one  hundred  and  fifty- eight  miles  south 
of  Khartoum.  With  the  completion,  in  1910,  of  several 
iron  bridges,  it  was  advanced  to  Kosti,  a  post  on  the 
White  Nile,  with  the  northern  end  of  Lake  Tanganyika 
some  twelve  hundred  miles  away. 

That  a  few  more  years  will  see  the  northern  section 
extending  southward,  via  Gondokoro,  to  Lake  Victoria 
Nyanza,  and  the  southern  section  northward  to  Lake 
Tanganyika,  there  is  little  doubt.  Indeed,  the  plans 
are  drawn,  the  routes  mapped,  the  levels  run,  and  on 
the  Katanga-Tanganyika  section  the  railway- builders 
are  even  now  at  work.  But  when  the  Victoria  Nyanza 
has  been  reached  by  the  one  section,  and  Tanganyika 
by  the  other,  there  will  come  a  halt,  for  between  the  two 
rail-heads  there  will  still  be  six  hundred  miles  of  inter- 
vening territory — and  that  territory  is  German. 

Unless,  therefore,  England  can  obtain,  by  treaty 
or  purchase,  a  railway  zone  across  German  East  Africa, 
such  as  we  have  obtained  for  the  Canal  across  the 
Isthmus  of  Panama,  it  looks  very  much  as  though  there 
would  never  be  an  all-British  railway  from  the  Medi- 
terranean to  the  Cape,  and  as  though  the  life  dream  of 
Cecil  John  Rhodes  would  vanish  into  thin  air.  There 
are  several  reasons  why  Germany  is  not  inclined  to  give 

England  the  much-desired  right  of  way.    First,  because 

198 


"ALL  ABOARD   FOR  CAPE  TOWN!" 

between  the  two  nations  a  bitter  rivalry,  political  and 
commercial,  exists,  and  the  Germans  feel  that  already 
far  too  much  of  the  continent  is  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Union  Jack;  secondly,  because  the  Germans  are,  as  I 
have  already  mentioned  in  the  preceding  chapter,  them- 
selves building  a  railway  from  Dar-es-Salam,  the  capital 
of  their  east-coast  colony,  to  Lake  Tanganyika,  and  by 
means  of  this  line  they  expect  to  divert  to  their  own 
ports  the  trade  of  all  that  portion  of  inner  Africa  lying 
between  Rhodesia  and  the  Sudan;  thirdly,  because  it  is 
unlikely  in  the  extreme  that  England  would  give  Ger- 
many such  a  quid  pro  quo  as  she  would  demand — as, 
for  example,  the  cession  of  Walfish  Bay,  the  British  port 
in  German  Southwest  Africa,  or  of  the  British  protec- 
torate of  Zanzibar,  or  of  both;  fourthly,  because  the 
Germans  now  have  the  British  in  just  such  a  predica- 
ment regarding  the  completion  of  the  "  Cape-to-Cairo  " 
railway  as  the  British  have  the  Germans  regarding  the 
completion  of  the  Bagdad  railway.  In  other  words, 
the  only  condition  on  which  either  country  will  permit 
its  rival's  railway  to  be  built  through  its  territory  is 
internationalisation. 

That  there  will  ever  be  an  all-British  railway  from 
the  Mediterranean  to  the  Cape  seems  to  me  exceedingly 
doubtful,  for  the  political,  territorial,  and  financial 
obstacles  are  many,  and  not  easily  to  be  disposed  of; 
but  that  the  not-far-distant  future  will  see  the  comple- 
tion, under  international  auspices,  of  this  great  trans- 
continental trunk  line  seems  to  me  to  be  as  certain  as 
that  the  locomotive  sparks  fly  upward  or  that  the  hoar- 

199 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

frost  on  the  rails  disappears  before  the  sun.  Rhodes 
always  said  that  the  success  of  such  a  system  must 
largely  depend  on  the  junctions  to  the  east  and  west 
coasts,  which  would  affect  such  a  line  very  much  as 
tributary  streams  affect  a  river,  A  number  of  such 
feeders  are  already  in  operation  and  others  are  rapidly 
building.  Beginning  at  the  north,  the  main  line  of  the 
"  Cape-to-Cairo  "  is  tapped  at  Cairo  by  the  railways  from 
Port  Said  and  Suez;  and  at  Atbara  Junction,  in  the 
Sudan,  a  constantly  increasing  stream  of  traffic  flows 
in  over  the  line  from  Port  Sudan,  a  harbour  recently 
built  to  order  on  the  Red  Sea.  The  misnamed  Uganda 
Railway  is  in  regular  operation  between  Mombasa  on 
the  Indian  Ocean  and  Port  Florence  on  the  Victoria 
Nyanza,  whence  there  is  a  steamer  service  to  Entebbe 
in  Uganda.  From  Dar-es-Salam,  the  capital  of  German 
East  Africa,  the  Germans  are  rushing  a  railway  through 
to  Ujiji,  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Tanganyika,  the  engineer- 
in-chief  assuring  me  that  it  would  be  completed  and  in 
operation  by  the  summer  of  19 14.  From  Beira,  in 
Portuguese  East  Africa,  the  Beira,  Mashonaland,  and 
Rhodesia  Railway  carries  an  enormous  stream  of  traffic 
inland  to  its  junction  with  the  main  line  at  Bulawayo. 
Still  farther  south  a  line  from  the  Portuguese  posses- 
sion of  Delagoa  Bay  connects  with  the  main  system 
at  Maf eking,  on  the  borders  of  Bechuanaland,  while 
Kimberley  is  the  junction  for  a  line  from  Durban,  in 
Natal,  and  De  Aar  for  feeders  from  East  London  and 
Port  Elizabeth,  in  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

From  Swakopmund,  on  the  other  side  of  the  con- 
200 


"ALL  ABOARD   FOR  CAPE  TOWN!" 

tinent,  a  railway  has  already  been  pushed  nearly  five 
hundred  miles  into  the  interior  of  German  Southwest 
Africa  which  will  eventually  link  up  with  the  "  Cape-to- 
Cairo"  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Victoria  Falls,  running 
through  German  territory  practically  all  the  way.  Still 
another  line  is  being  built  inland  from  Lobito  Bay  in 
Angola  (Portuguese  West  Africa)  to  join  the  transcon- 
tinental system  near  the  Congo  border,  nearly  half  of  its 
total  length  of  twelve  hundred  miles  being  completed. 
It  is  estimated  that  by  means  of  this  line  the  journey 
between  England  and  the  cities  of  the  Rand  will  be 
shortened  by  at  least  six  days.  It  will  be  seen,  there- 
fore, that  the  "  Cape-to-Cairo  "  system  will  have  eleven 
great  feeders,  eight  of  which  are  already  completed  and 
in  operation,  while  all  of  the  remaining  four  will  be 
carrying  freight  and  passengers  before  the  close  of 
1914. 

When  the  last  rail  of  the  "Cape-to-Cairo"  is  laid, 
and  the  last  spike  driven,  its  builders  may  say,  without 
fear  of  contradiction,  "In  all  the  world  no  road  like 
this."  And  in  the  nature  of  things  it  is  impossible 
that  there  can  ever  be  its  like  again,  for  there  will  be 
no  more  continents  to  open  up,  no  more  frontiers  to 
conquer.  It  will  start  on  the  sandy  shores  of  the  Medi- 
terranean and  end  under  the  shadow  of  Table  Moun- 
tain. In  between,  it  will  pass  through  jungle,  swamp, 
and  desert;  it  will  zigzag  across  plains  where  elephants 
play  by  day  and  lions  roar  by  night;  it  will  corkscrew 
up  the  slopes  of  snow-capped  mountains,  meander 
through  the  cultivated  patches  of  strange  inland  tribes, 

201 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

stride  long-legged  athwart  treacherous,  pestilential 
swamps,  plough  through  the  darkness  of  primeval  for- 
ests, and  stretch  its  length  across  the  rolling,  wind-swept 
veldt,  until  it  finally  ends  in  the  great  antipodean  me- 
tropolis on  the  edge  of  the  Southern  Ocean.  On  its  way 
it  traverses  nearly  seventy  degrees  of  latitude,  samples 
every  climate,  touches  every  degree  of  temperature, 
experiences  every  extreme.  At  Gondokoro,  in  the 
swamp-lands  of  the  Sudd,  the  red-fezzed  engine-driver 
will  lean  gasping  from  his  blistered  cab;  at  Kimberley, 
in  the  highlands  of  the  Rand,  he  will  stamp  with 
numbed  feet  and  blow  with  chattering  teeth  on  his 
half-frozen  fingers. 

The  traveller  who  climbs  into  the  Cape-to-Cairo 
Limited  at  the  Quay  Station  in  Alexandria,  in  response 
to  the  conductor's  cry  of  "All  aboard!  All  aboard  for 
Cape  Town ! "  can  lean  from  the  window  of  his  compart- 
ment as  the  train  approaches  Cairo  and  see  the  misty 
outlines  of  the  Pyramids,  those  mysterious  monuments 
of  antiquity  which  were  hoary  with  age  when  London 
was  a  cluster  of  mud  huts  and  Paris  was  yet  to  be 
founded  in  the  swamps  beside  the  Seine;  at  Luxor  he 
will  pass  beneath  the  shadow  of  ruined  Thebes,  a  city 
beside  which  Athens  and  Rome  are  ludicrously  modern; 
at  Assuan  he  will  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  greatest  dam 
ever  built  by  man — a  mile  and  a  quarter  long  and  built 
of  masonry  weighing  a  million  tons — holding  in  check 
the  waters  of  the  longest  river  in  the  world;  at  Khar- 
toum, peering  through  the  blue-glass  windows  which 
protect  the  passengers'  eyes  from  the  blinding  sun 

202 


"ALL  ABOARD  FOR  CAPE  TOWN!" 

glare,  he  can  see  the  statue  of  Gordon,  seated  on  his 
bronze  camel,  peering  northward  across  the  desert  in 
search  of  the  white  helmets  that  came  too  late;  at 
Entebbe  his  eyes  will  be  dazzled  by  the  shimmering 
waters  of  the  Victoria  Nyanza,  barring  Lake  Superior 
the  greatest  of  all  fresh- water  seas;  at  Ujiji  he  will  see 
natives  in  German  uniforms  drilling  on  the  spot  where 
Stanley  discovered  Livingstone.  He  will  hold  his 
breath  in  awe  as  the  train  rolls  out  over  the  Victoria 
Falls  of  the  Zambezi,  for  there  will  lie  below  him  the 
mightiest  cataract  in  the  world — an  unbroken  sheet 
of  falling,  roaring,  smoking  water,  two  and  a  half  times 
the  height  and  ten  times  the  width  of  the  American  Fall 
at  Niagara;  at  Kimberley  he  will  see  the  great  pits  in 
the  earth  which  supply  the  women  of  the  world  with 
diamonds;  in  the  outskirts  of  Johannesburg  he  will  see 
the  mountains  of  ore  from  which  comes  one-third  of  the 
gold  supply  of  the  world.  And  finally,  when  his  train 
has  at  last  come  to  a  halt  under  the  glass  roof  of  the 
Victoria  Terminal  in  Cape  Town,  with  close  on  six 
thousand  miles  of  track  behind  it,  the  traveller,  if  he 
has  any  imagination  and  any  appreciation  in  his  soul, 
will  make  a  little  pilgrimage  to  that  spot  on  the  slopes 
of  Table  Mountain  known  as  "World's  View,"  where 
another  statue  of  that  same  bulky,  thick-set,  shabbily 
clad  man,  this  time  guarded  by  many  British  lions, 
stares  northward  over  Africa.  He  will  take  his  stand 
in  front  of  that  mighty  memorial  and,  lifting  his  hat,  will 
say:  "You,  sir,  were  a  great  man,  the  greatest  this  be- 
nighted continent  has  ever  known,  and  if  one  day  it  is 

203 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

transformed  into  a  land  of  civilisation,  of  peace,  and  of 
prosperity,  it  will  be  due,  more  than  anything  else,  to 
the  great  iron  highway,  from  the  Nile's  mouth  to  the 
continent's  end,  which  is  the  fulfilment  of  your  dream. " 


6*4 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  PIONEER 

WHEN  the  penniless  younger  son  of  the  English 
society  play  is  jilted  by  the  luxury-loving  hero- 
ine, he  invariably  packs  his  portmanteau  and  betakes 
himself  to  Rhodesia  to  make  his  fortune.  Fifty  years 
ago  he  sought  the  golden  fleece  in  California;  thirty 
years  ago  he  took  passage  by  P.  &  0.  boat  for  the  Aus- 
tralian diggings;  ten  years  ago  he  helped  to  swell  the 
mad  rush  to  the  Yukon;  to-day  his  journey's  end  is  the 
newest  of  the  great,  new  nations— Rhodesia.  He  re- 
turns in  the  fourth  act,  broad-hatted,  bronzed,  and 
boisterous,  to  announce  that  he  is  the  owner  of  a  ten- 
thousand-acre  farm,  or  a  diamond  field,  or  a  gold  mine, 
or  all  of  them,  and  that  he  has  come  home  to  find  a  girl 
to  share  his  farm-house  on  the  Rhodesian  veldt,  where 
good  cooking  is  more  essential  in  a  wife  than  good 
clothes  and  a  good  complexion. 

Now,  beyond  having  a  vague  idea  that  Rhodesia 
is  a  frontier  country  somewhere  at  the  back  of  beyond, 
there  is  only  about  one  in  every  fifty  of  the  audience 
who  has  any  definite  notion  where  or  what  it  really  is. 
Picture,  then,  if  you  can,  a  territory  about  the  size  of  all 
the  Atlantic  States,  from  Florida  to  Maine,  put  to- 
gether, with  the  dry,  dusty,  sunny  climate  of  southern 
California  and  the  fertile,  rolling,  well- watered,  and  well- 

205 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

wooded  surface  of  Indiana;  picture  such  a  country 
dropped  down  in  the  heart  of  equatorial  Africa — tha  t  is 
Rhodesia.  It  lies  a  little  above  and  to  the  right  of  that 
speckled  yellow  patch  on  the  map  of  Africa  which  was 
labelled  in  our  school  geographies  the  Kalahari  Dnsert. 
Bearing  the  name  of  the  great  empire-builder  is  the 
whole  of  that  region  which  is  bounded  on  the  north 
by  the  Congo  and  the  sleeping-sickness,  on  the;  east  by 
Mozambique  and  the  black-water  fever,  on  the  west  by 
Angola  and  the  cocoa  atrocities,  and  on  the  south  by  the 
Transvaal  and  the  discontented  Dutch.  It  is  watered 
by  the  Limpopo,  which  forms  its  southernmost  boun- 
dary; by  the  Zambezi,  which  separates  Southern  Rhode- 
sia from  the  northeast  and  northwest  provinces;  and 
by  the  innumerable  streams  which  unite  to  form  the 
Congo. 

When  the  railway  which  English  concessionaires 
are  now  pushing  inland  from  the  coast  of  Angola  to  the 
Zambezi  is  completed,  the  front  door  to  Rhodesia  will 
be  Lobito  Bay,  thus  bringing  Bulawayo  within  sixteen 
days  of  the  Strand  by  boat  and  rail.  At  present,  how- 
ever, the  country  must  be  entered  through  the  cellar, 
which  means  Cape  Town  and  a  railway  journey  of 
fourteen  hundred  miles;  or  by  the  side  door  at  Beira,  a 
fever-stricken  Portuguese  town  on  the  East  Coast, 
which  is  fortunate  in  being  but  a  night's  journey  by  rail 
from  the  Rhodesian  frontier  and  is,  in  consequence,  the 
gateway  through  which  British  jams,  American  har- 
vesters, and  German  jack-knives  are  opening  up  inner 
Africa  to  foreign  exploitation. 

206 


THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  PIONEER; 

The  Rhodesia-bound  traveller  who  escapes  landing 
at  Beira  in  a  basket  is  fortunate,  for  it  has  a  poorly  shel- 
tered harbour  and  neither  dock,  jetty,  nor  wharf,  so 
that  in  the  monsoon  months,  when  the  great  combers 
come  roaring  in  from  the  Indian  Ocean  mountain-high, 
there  is  about  as  much  chance  of  getting  the  steam  ten- 
der alongside  the  rolling  liner  as  there  is  of  getting  a 
frightened  horse  alongside  a  panting  automobile.  If 
a  dangerous  sea  is  running,  the  disembarking  passenger 
is  put  into  a  cylindrical,  elongated  basket,  a  sort  of  en- 
larged edition  of  those  used  for  soiled  towels  in  the 
lavatories  of  hotels;  a  wheezing  donkey-engine  swings 
it  up  and  outward  and,  if  the  man  at  the  lever  calculates 
the  roll  of  the  ship  correctly,  drops  it  with  a  thud  on 
the  deck  of  the  tender  plunging  off-side. 

Built  on  a  stretch  of  sun-baked  sand,  between  a 
miasmal  jungle  and  the  sea,  Beira  is  the  hottest  and  un- 
healthiest  place  in  all  East  Africa.  "It  is  one  of  the 
places  that  the  Lord  has  overlooked, "  remarked  a  sal- 
low-faced resident,  as  he  took  his  hourly  dose  of  quinine. 
Even  the  paid-to-be-enthusiastic  author  of  the  steam- 
ship company's  glowing  booklet  hesitates  at  depicting 
this  fever-haunted,  sun-baked,  sand-suffocated  seaport 
of  Mozambique,  contenting  himself  with  the  non- 
committal statement  that  "it  is  indescribable;  it  is  just 
Beira. "  The  town  has  but  three  attractions:  a  broad- 
verandaed  hotel  where  they  charge  you  forty  cents  for 
a  lemonade  with  no  ice  in  it;  a  golf  course,  laid  out  by 
a  newly  arrived  Englishman,  who  died  of  sunstroke  the 
first  day  he  played  on  it;  and  a  trolley  system  which 

207 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

makes  every  resident  the  owner  of  his  own  street-car. 
The  heat  in  Beira  being  too  great  to  permit  of  walking 
— a  shaded  thermometer  not  infrequently  climbs  to  one 
hundred  and  twenty  degrees;  the  streets  being  too  deep 
in  sand  for  the  use  of  vehicles;  and  the  tsetse-fly  killing 
off  horses  in  a  few  days,  those  European  traders  and 
officials  who  are  condemned  to  dwell  in  Beira  get  about 
in  "trolleys"  of  their  own.  These  two-seated,  hooded 
conveyances,  which  are  a  sort  of  cross  between  a  hand- 
car, a  baby-carriage,  and  the  wheeled  chairs  on  the  board 
walk  at  Atlantic  City,  are  pushed  by  half-naked  and 
perspiring  natives  over  a  track  which  extends  from  one 
end  of  the  town  to  the  other  and  with  sidings  into  every 
man's  front  yard.  It  struck  me,  however,  that  the  most 
interesting  things  in  Beira  were  the  corrugated-iron 
shanty  and  the  stretch  of  wooden  platform  which  mark 
the  terminus  of  the  railway,  and  from  which,  in  answer 
to  my  anxious  queries,  I  was  assured  that  a  train  de- 
parted twice  weekly  for  Salisbury,  the  capital  of  Rhode- 
sia. I  used  to  sit  on  the  veranda  of  the  hotel  and  stare 
across  the  stretch  of  burning  sand  at  that  wretched 
station  as  longingly  as  the  small  boy  stares  at  the  red 
numeral  on  the  calendar  which  indicates  the  Fourth 
of  July. 

A  temperature  of  one  hundred  and  eighteen  degrees 
in  my  compartment  of  the  sleeping-car;  miasma  rising 
in  cloud  wreaths  from  the  jungle;  a  station  platform, 
alive  with  slovenly  Portuguese  soldiers  with  faces  as 
yellow  as  their  uniforms;  helmeted,  gaunt-cheeked  tra- 
ders and  officials,  and  cotton-clad  Swahilis,  comprised 

208 


THE  LAST  STAND   OF  THE  PIONEER 

my  last  recollection  of  Beira  and  the  terrible  East  Coast. 
The  next  morning  I  awoke  in  my  compartment  shiver- 
ing, not  from  fever  but  from  cold.  Gone,  as  though  in 
a  bad  dream,  were  the  glaring  sands,  the  steaming  jun- 
gle, and  the  sallow,  fever-racked  men.  Instead,  my 
car  window  framed  a  picture  of  rolling,  grass-covered 
uplands,  dotted  here  and  there  with  herds  of  grazing 
cattle  and  substantial,  whitewashed  farm-houses,  while 
back  of  all  was  the  gray-blue  of  distant  mountains.  As 
I  looked  at  the  transformed  landscape  incredulously, 
the  train  halted  at  a  way-station  swarming  with  broad- 
hatted,  flannel-shirted,  sun-tanned  men  with  clean-cut 
Anglo-Saxon  faces.  A  row  of  saddle-horses  were  tied 
to  the  station  fence,  while  their  owners  stamped  up  and 
down  the  platform  impatiently,  awaiting  the  sorting  of 
the  infrequent  mail  from  home;  a  democrat  wagon  and 
a  clumsy  Cape  cart  were  drawn  up  in  the  roadway; 
and  at  a  house  close  by  a  woman  in  a  sunbonnet  was 
feeding  chickens.  "Where  are  we?"  I  inquired  of  the 
guard,  as  he  passed  through  the  train.  "We're  just 
into  Rhodesia  now,  sir,"  said  he,  touching  his  cap. 
"This  is  Umtali,  in  Mashonaland. "  (Now,  if  I  had 
asked  that  same  question  of  a  brakeman  on  one  of  our 
own  railways,  he  would  probably  have  answered,  with 
the  independence  of  his  kind:  "  Can't  you  read  the  sign 
on  the  station  for  yourself?")  "Surely  there  must  be 
some  mistake,"  I  said  to  myself.  "This  cannot  be 
Central  Africa,  for  where  are  the  impenetrable  jungles 
through  which  Livingstone  cut  his  way,  the  savage 
animals  which  Du  Chaillu  shot,  and  the  naked  savages 

209 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

with  whom  Stanley  alternately  battled  and  bartered? 
This  is  not  Africa;  this  is  our  own  West,  with  its  men  in 
corduroy  and  sombreros  and  its  women  in  gingham,  with 
its  open,  rolling  prairies  and  its  air  like  dry  champagne. " 
Indeed,  throughout  my  stay  in  Rhodesia  I  could  not  rid 
myself  of  the  impression  that  I  was  back  in  the  Ameri- 
can West  of  thirty  years  ago,  before  the  pioneer,  the 
prospector,  and  the  cow-puncher  had  retreated  before 
the  advance  of  the  railway,  the  harvester,  and  the 
motor-car. 

The  story  of  the  taking  and  making  of  Rhodesia 
forms  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  thrilling  chapters 
in  the  history  of  England's  colonial  expansion.  About 
the  time  that  the  nineteenth  century  had  reached  its 
turning-point,  a  strange  tale,  passing  by  word  of  mouth 
from  native  kraal  to  native  kraal,  came  at  last  to  the 
ears  of  a  Scotch  worker  in  the  mission  field  of  Bechu- 
analand.  It  was  a  tale  of  a  waterfall  somewhere  in 
the  jungles  of  the  distant  north;  a  waterfall  so  mighty, 
declared  the  natives,  that  the  spray  from  it  looked  like  a 
storm  cloud  on  the  horizon  and  the  thunder  of  its  waters 
could  be  heard  four  days'  trek  away.  So  the  mission- 
ary, wearied  with  the  tedium  of  proselyting  amid  a 
peaceful  people  and  restless  with  the  curiosity  of  the 
born  explorer,  set  out  on  a  long  and  lonely  march  to 
the  northward,  through  a  country  which  no  white  man's 
eyes  had  ever  seen.  It  took  him  three  years  to  reach 
the  falls  for  which  he  started,  but  when  at  last  he  stood 
upon  the  brink  of  the  canyon  and  looked  down  upon  the 
waters  of  the  Zambezi  as  they  hurtled  over  four  hundred 

2IO 


THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  PIONEER 

feet  of  sheerest  cliff,  he  was  so  awed  by  their  majesty 
and  their  beauty  that  he  named  them  after  Victoria,  the 
young  English  queen.  Before  he  left  the  missionary- 
explorer  carved  his  name  on  the  trunk  of  a  near-by  tree, 
where  it  can  be  seen  to-day;  the  name  is  David  Living- 
stone. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  century  the  regions  adjacent  to 
the  Zambezi  were  disturbed  only  by  migratory  bands  of 
natives  and  marauding  animals.  Then  Stanley  came 
with  his  mile-long  caravan  of  porters,  halting  long 
enough  to  explore  and  map  the  region,  on  his  historic 
march  from  coast  to  coast.  In  the  middle  eighties  a 
young  English  prospector,  trekking  through  the  coun- 
try with  a  single  wagon,  found  that  for  which  he  was 
seeking — gold.  Likewise  he  saw  that  its  verdure-clad 
prairies  would  support  many  cattle  and  that  its  virgin 
soil  was  adapted  for  many  kinds  of  crops;  that  it  was, 
in  short,  a  white  man's  country.  Unarmed  and  un- 
accompanied, he  penetrated  to  the  kraal  of  Lobenguela, 
the  chief  of  the  warlike  Matabele,  who  occupied  the 
region,  and  induced  him  to  sign  a  treaty  placing  his 
country  under  British  protection.  The  price  paid  him 
was  five  hundred  dollars  a  month  and  a  thousand  an- 
tiquated rifles;  cheap  enough,  surely,  for  a  territory 
three  times  the  size  of  Texas  and  as  rich  in  natural  re- 
sources as  California.  A  year  later  the  British  South 
Africa  Company,  a  corporation  capitalised  at  thirty 
million  dollars,  under  a  charter  granted  by  the  Imperial 
Government,  began  the  work  of  exploiting  the  conces- 
sion;   naming  it,  properly  enough,  after  Cecil  John 

211 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Rhodes,  the  lone  prospector  who,  with  the  vision  of  a 
prophet,  had  foreseen  its  possibilities  and  by  whose 
unaided  efforts  it  had  been  obtained.  Such  was  the 
first  step  in  Rhodes's  policy  of  British  expansion  north- 
ward— a  policy  so  successful  that  in  his  own  lifetime 
he  saw  the  frontiers  of  British  Africa  pushed  from  the 
Orange  River  to  the  Nile. 

To  hand  over  a  colonial  possession,  its  inhabitants 
and  its  resources,  to  be  administered  and  exploited  by 
a  private  corporation,  sounds  like  a  strange  proceeding 
to  American  ears.  Imagine  turning  the  Philippines 
over  to  the  Standard  Oil  Company  and  giving  that  cor- 
poration permission  to  appoint  its  own  officials,  make 
its  own  laws,  assess  its  own  taxes,  and  maintain  its 
own  military  force  in  those  islands.  That,  roughly 
speaking,  was  about  what  England  did  when  she  turned 
Rhodesia  over  to  the  chartered  company.  It  should  be 
remembered,  however,  that,  beginning  when  the  Euro- 
pean nations  were  entering  upon  an  era  of  economic  ex- 
ploration of  hitherto  virgin  territories,  these  chartered 
companies  have  played  a  large  part  in  the  history  of 
colonisation  in  general  and  in  the  upbuilding  of  the 
British  Empire  in  particular,  though  in  the  great 
majority  of  cases  it  was  trade,  not  empire,  at  which  they 
aimed.  Warned,  however,  by  the  fashion  in  which  the 
East  India  Company  and  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company 
abused  their  power,  the  British  Government  keeps  a 
jealous  eye  on  the  activities  of  the  Rhodesian  conces- 
sionaires, their  charter,  while  conferring  broad  trading 
privileges  and  great  administrative  powers,  differing 

212 


THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  PIONEER 

from  earlier  instruments  in  neither  delegating  sover- 
eignty nor  granting  an  exclusive  monopoly. 

The  Rhodesia  protectorate  is  the  result  of  the  con- 
solidation of  four  great  native  kingdoms:  Mashonaland 
in  the  southeast,  Matabeleland  in  the  southwest, 
Barotseland  in  the  northwest,  and  in  the  northeast  a 
portion  of  the  now  separately  administered  protecto- 
rate of  Nyasaland.  Practically  the  whole  country  is 
an  elevated  veldt,  or  plateau,  ranging  from  three  thou- 
sand five  hundred  to  five  thousand  feet  above  sea-level; 
studded  with  granite  kopjes  which  in  the  south  attain 
to  the  dignity  of  a  mountain  chain;  well  watered  by 
tributaries  of  the  Congo,  the  Zambezi,  and  the  Limpopo; 
and  covered  with  a  luxuriant  vegetation.  Like  Cali- 
fornia, Southern  Rhodesia  has  a  unique  and  hospitable 
climate,  free  from  the  dangerous  heats  of  an  African 
summer  and  from  cold  winds  in  winter.  Though  the 
climate  of  nearly  all  of  Southern  Rhodesia  is  suitable 
for  Europeans,  much  of  the  trans-Zambezi  provinces, 
especially  along  the  river  valleys  and  in  the  low-lying, 
swampy  regions  near  the  great  equatorial  lakes,  reeks 
with  malaria,  while  in  certain  other  areas,  now  carefully 
delimited  and  guarded  by  governmental  regulation, 
the  tsetse-fly  commits  terrible  ravages  among  cattle  and 
horses  and  the  sleeping-sickness  among  men.  The  cli- 
mate as  a  whole,  however,  is  characterised  by  a  rather 
remarkable  equability  of  temperature,  especially  when 
it  is  remembered  that  Rhodesia  extends  from  the  bor- 
ders of  the  temperate  zone  to  within  a  few  degrees  of 
the  equator.    At  Salisbury,  the  capital,  for  example,  the 

213 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

mean  July  temperature  is  5  7. 50  and  for  January  70. 50, 
the  extremes  for  the  year  ranging  from  340  to  930.  It  is 
a  significant  fact,  however,  that  the  glowing  prospec- 
tuses of  the  chartered  company  touch  but  lightly  on  the 
climatic  conditions  which  prevail  north  of  the  Zambezi, 
a  region  from  which,  it  struck  me,  the  European  settler 
who  does  not  possess  a  system  that  is  proof  against  every 
form  of  tropical  fever,  a  head  that  is  proof  against  sun- 
stroke, and  a  mind  which  is  proof  against  that  often- 
times fatal  form  of  homesickness  which  the  army  sur- 
geons call  nostalgia,  is  much  more  likely  to  go  home 
in  a  coffin  than  in  a  cabine  de  luxe. 

In  mines  of  gold,  of  silver,  and  of  diamonds  Rhode- 
sia is  very  rich;  agriculturally  it  is  very  fertile,  for  in 
addition  to  the  native  crops  of  rice,  tobacco,  cotton, 
and  india-rubber,  the  fruits,  vegetables,  and  cereals  of 
Europe  and  America  are  profitably  grown.  The  great 
fields  of  maize,  or  "mealies,"  as  all  South  Africans  call 
it,  through  which  my  train  frequently  passed,  constantly 
reminded  me  of  scenes  in  our  own  "corn  belt";  but  in 
the  watch-towers  which  rise  from  every  corn-field,  atop 
of  which  an  armed  Kaffir  sits  day  and  night  to  protect 
the  crops  from  the  raids  of  wild  pigs  and  baboons, 
Rhodesia  has  a  feature  which  she  is  welcome  to  con- 
sider exclusively  her  own. 

Though  Rhodesia  is  distinctly  a  frontier  country, 
with  many  of  a  frontier's  defects,  her  towns — Salisbury, 
Bulawayo,  Umtali,  and  the  rest — are  not  frontier  towns 
as  we  knew  them  in  Butte,  Cheyenne,  Deadwood,  and 
Carson  City.    There  are  saloons,  of  course,  but  they 

214 


THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  PIONEER 

are  not  of  the  "gin  palace"  variety,  nor  did  it  strike  me 
that  intoxication  was  particularly  common;  certainly 
nothing  like  what  it  used  to  be  during  the  gold-rush 
days  in  Alaska  or  in  our  own  West.  This  may  be  due 
to  the  fantastic  prices  charged  for  liquor — a  whiskey- 
and-soda  costs  sixty  cents — and  then  again  it  maybe 
due  to  the  fact  that  most  of  the  settlers  have  brought 
their  families  with  them,  so  that,  instead  of  spending 
their  evenings  leaning  over  green  tables  or  polished  bars, 
they  devote  them  to  cricket,  gardening,  or  a  six-weeks- 
old  English  paper.  Though  nearly  every  one  goes 
armed,  the  streets  of  the  Rhodesian  towns  are  as  peace- 
able as  Commonwealth  Avenue,  in  Boston,  on  a  Sunday 
morning.  Indeed,  the  commandant  of  police  in  Bula- 
wayo  assured  me  that  he  had  had  only  one  shooting 
affray  during  his  term  of  office.  In  Rhodesia,  should  a 
man  draw  his  gun  as  the  easiest  means  of  settling  a 
quarrel,  his  companions,  instead  of  responding  by  draw- 
ing theirs,  would  probably  call  a  constable  and  have  him 
bound  over  to  keep  the  peace.  Even  the  rights  of  the 
natives  are  rigidly  safeguarded  by  law,  an  American 
settler  in  Umtali  complaining  to  me  most  bitterly  that 
"it's  more  dangerous  for  a  white  man  to  kick  a  nigger 
down  here  than  it  is  for  him  to  kill  one  in  the  States. " 
Now,  all  this  was  rather  disappointing  for  one  who,  like 
myself,  was  on  the  lookout  for  the  local  colour  and  pic- 
turesqueness  and  whoop-her-up-boys  excitement  which 
one  naturally  associates  with  life  on  a  frontier;  but  I 
might  have  expected  just  what  I  found,  for  wherever 
the  flag  of  England  flies,  whether  over  the  gold-miners 

215 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

of  the  Yukon,  the  ivory-traders  of  Uganda,  or  the  set- 
tlers of  Rhodesia,  there  will  be  found  the  deep-seated 
respect  of  the  Englishman  for  English  order  and  Eng- 
lish law. 

In  my  opinion  the  country  club,  more  than  any- 
other  single  factor,  has  contributed  most  to  the  making, 
socially  and  morally,  of  Rhodesia.  Though  the  Amer- 
ican West  is  dotted  with  just  such  towns  as  Salisbury, 
Bulawayo,  Gwelo,  and  Umtali,  with  the  same  limita- 
tions, pitfalls,  and  possibilities,  the  men's  centre  of  in- 
terest, after  the  day's  work  is  over,  is  the  saloon,  the 
dance-hall,  or  the  barber-shop  with  a  pool-room  in  the 
rear.  They  do  things  differently  in  central  Africa.  In 
every  Rhodesian  town  large  enough  to  support  one — 
and  the  same  is  true  of  all  Britain's  colonial  possessions 
— I  found  that  a  "sports  club"  had  been  established 
on  the  edge  of  the  town.  Often  it  was  nothing  but 
a  ramshackle  shed  or  cottage  that  had  been  given  a 
coat  of  paint  and  had  a  veranda  added,  but  files  of  the 
English  newspapers  and  illustrated  weeklies  were  to  be 
found  inside,  while  from  the  tea  tables  on  the  veranda 
one  overlooked  half  a  dozen  tennis  courts,  a  cricket 
ground,  and  a  foot-ball  field.  It  is  here  that  the  set- 
tlers— men,  women,  and  children — congregate  toward 
evening,  to  discuss  the  crop  prospects,  the  local  taxes, 
the  latest  gold  discoveries,  and,  above  all  else,  the 
news  contained  in  the  weekly  mail  from  home.  Why 
have  not  our  own  progressive  prairie  towns  some 
simple  social  system  like  this?  It  was  in  speaking  of 
this  very  thing  that  the  mayor  of  Salisbury — himself 

216 


THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  PIONEER 

an  American — remarked:  "In  the  little,  every-day 
things  which  make  for  successful  colonisation  of  a  new 
country,  you  fellows  in  the  States  are  twenty  years 
behind  us. " 

Living  is  expensive  in  Rhodesia,  the  prices  of 
necessaries  usually  being  high  and  of  luxuries  of  ttimes 
fantastic.  To  counterbalance  this,  however,  wages  are 
extraordinarily  high.  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  quote 
wages,  for  the  farther  up-country  a  man  gets  the  higher 
pay  he  can  command,  so  I  will  content  myself  with  the 
bare  statement  that  for  the  skilled  workman,  be  he  car- 
penter, blacksmith,  mason,  or  wheelwright,  larger  wages 
are  to  be  earned  than  in  any  part  of  the  world  that  I 
know.  The  same  is  true  of  the  man  who  has  had  prac- 
tical experience  in  agriculture  or  stock-raising,  there  be- 
ing a  steady  demand  for  men  conversant  with  dairying, 
cattle-breeding,  and  irrigation.  Let  me  drive  home  and 
copper-rivet  the  fact,  however,  that  in  Rhodesia,  as  in 
nearly  all  new  countries,  where  there  is  a  considerable 
native  population  to  draw  upon,  there  is  no  place  for 
the  unskilled  labourer. 

For  the  man  with  resource  and  a  little  capital  there 
are  many  roads  to  wealth  in  British  Africa.  I  know  of 
one,  formerly  a  laundry  employee  in  Chicago,  who 
landed  in  Rhodesia  with  limited  capital  but  unlimited 
confidence.  Recognising  that  the  country  had  arrived 
at  that  stage  of  civilisation  where  the  people  were  tired 
of  wearing  flannel  shirts,  but  could  not  afford  to  have 
white  ones  ruined  by  Kaffir  washermen,  he  started  a 
chain  of  sanitary  up-to-date  laundries,  and  is  to-day 

217 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

one  of  the  wealthy  men  of  the  colony.  If  you  ever  had 
to  pay  one  of  his  laundry  bills  you  would  understand 
why.  Another  American,  starting  business  as  a  hotel- 
keeper  in  Salisbury,  soon  perceived  that  the  people  were 
ripe  for  some  form  of  amusement  other  than  that  pro- 
vided by  the  cricket  fields  and  saloons;  so  he  built  a 
string  of  cinematograph  and  vaudeville  theatres  com- 
bined, and  to-day,  on  the  very  spot  where  Lobenguela's 
medicine-men  performed  their  bloody  rites  a  dozen 
years  ago,  you  can  hear  the  whir  of  the  moving-picture 
machine  and  see  on  the  canvas  screen  a  military  review 
at  Aldershot  or  a  bathing  scene  at  Asbury  Park.  Still 
another  American  whom  I  met  has  increased  the  thick- 
ness of  his  wallet  by  supplying  prospectors  and  settlers 
with  sectional  houses  which  are  easily  portable  and  can 
be  erected  in  an  hour.  Taking  the  circular,  conical- 
roofed  hut  of  the  Matabele  as  his  model,  he  evolved 
an  affair  of  corrugated  iron  which  combines  simplicity, 
portability,  and  practicability  with  a  low  price,  so  that 
to-day,  as  you  travel  through  Rhodesia,  you  will  see 
these  American-made  imitations  of  Kaffir  huts  dotting 
the  veldt. 

Though  Rhodesia  has  a  black  population  of  one 
million  six  hundred  thousand,  as  against  twenty  thou- 
sand whites,  there  has  thus  far  been  no  such  thing  as 
race  troubles  or  a  colour  question,  due  in  large  measure, 
no  doubt,  to  the  firm  and  just  supervision  exercised 
by  the  British  resident  commissioners.  Arms,  ammuni- 
tion, and  liquor  excepted,  natives  and  Europeans  are 
under  the  same  conditions.    Land  has  been  set  apart  for 

218 


MORE  WORK  FOR  THE  PIONEER. 

In  the  heart  of  the  jungle  in  Northeastern  Rhodesia,  near  the  Congo  border.     This  is  the  sort  of  coun- 
try through  which  portions  of  the  "Cape-to-Cairo"  railway  will  pass. 


THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  PIONEER 

tribal  settlements,  the  mineral  rights  being  reserved 
to  the  company,  but,  if  the  native  occupation  is  dis- 
turbed, new  lands  must  immediately  be  assigned,  all 
disputes  being  ultimately  referrible  to  the  British  high 
commissioner.  Those  natives  living  near  the  towns  are 
segregated  in  settlements  of  their  own,  a  native  under 
no  circumstances  being  permitted  to  remain  within  the 
town  limits  after  nightfall,  or  to  enter  them  in  the  day- 
time without  a  pass  signed  by  the  commandant  of  police. 
Though  possessing  many  of  the  temperamental  char- 
acteristics of  the  American  negro,  and  in  particular  his 
aversion  for  manual  work,  the  Rhodesian  native  is,  on 
the  whole,  honest  and  trustworthy,  a  well-disciplined 
and  efficient  force  of  native  constabulary  having  been 
recruited  from  the  warlike  Barotse  and  Matabele. 

Highways  of  steel  bisect  Rhodesia  in  both  direc- 
tions. From  Plumtree,  on  the  borders  of  Bechuana- 
land,  the  Rhodesian  section  of  the  great  Cape- to- Cairo 
system  stretches  straight  across  the  country  to  Bwana 
M'kubwa,  on  the  Congo  frontier,  while  another  line, 
the  Rhodesia,  Mashonaland,  and  Beira,  links  up,  as  its 
name  indicates,  the  transcontinental  system  with  the 
East  Coast.  Though  the  much-advertised  Zambezi 
Express  is  scarcely  the  "veritable  train  de  luxe"  which 
the  railway  folders  call  it,  it  is  a  comfortable  enough 
train  nevertheless,  with  electric-lighted  dining  and 
sleeping  cars,  the  latter  being  fitted,  as  befits  a  dusty 
country,  with  baths.  The  dining-car  tariff  is  on  a 
sliding  scale;  the  farther  up-country  you  travel  the 
higher  the  prices  ascend.    Between  Cape  Town  and 

219 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Mafeking  the  charges  for  meals  seemed  to  me  exceed- 
ingly reasonable  (fifty  cents  for  breakfast,  sixty  cents  for 
luncheon,  and  seventy-five  cents  for  dinner);  between 
Mafeking  and  Bulawayo  they  are  only  moderate;  be- 
tween Bulawayo  and  the  Zambezi  they  are  high;  and 
north  of  the  Zambezi — when  you  can  get  any  food  at  all 
— the  charges  for  it  are  exorbitant.  When  the  section 
to  Lake  Tanganyika  is  completed  only  a  millionaire 
can  afford  to  enter  the  dining-car.  It  speaks  volumes 
for  the  development  of  British  South  Africa,  however, 
that  one  can  get  into  a  sleeping-car  in  Cape  Town  and 
get  out  of  it  again,  six  days  later,  on  the  navigable  head- 
waters of  the  Congo,  covering  the  distance  of  nearly 
two  thousand  five  hundred  miles  at  a  total  cost  of 
eighty  dollars — and  much  of  it  through  a  country  which 
has  been  opened  to  the  white  man  scarcely  a  dozen 
years. 

Just  as  every  visitor  to  the  United  States  heads 
straight  for  Niagara,  so  every  visitor  to  South  Africa 
purchases  forthwith  a  ticket  to  the  Victoria  Falls  of  the 
Zambezi,  the  mighty  cataract  in  the  heart  of  Rhodesia 
which  is  the  greatest  natural  wonder  in  the  Dark  Con- 
tinent and,  perhaps,  in  the  world.  The  natives  call  the 
falls  Mosi-oa-tunya,  which  means  "Thundering  Smoke," 
and  you  appreciate  the  name's  significance  when  your 
train  halts  at  daybreak  at  a  wayside  station,  sixty  miles 
away,  and  you  see  above  the  tree-tops  a  cloud  of  smoky 
vapour  and  hear  a  low  humming  like  a  million  sewing- 
machines.  It  is  so  utterly  impossible  for  the  eye,  the 
mind,  and  the  imagination  to  grasp  the  size,  grandeur, 

220 


THE  LAST  STAND   OF  THE  PIONEER 

and  beauty  of  the  Victoria  Falls  that  it  is  futile  to  at- 
tempt to  describe  them.  If  you  can  picture  an  un- 
broken sheet  of  water  forty  city  blocks  in  width,  or  as 
long  as  from  the  Grand  Central  Station,  in  New  York, 
to  Washington  Square,  hurtling  over  a  precipice  twice  as 
high  as  the  Flatiron  Building,  you  will  have  the  best  idea 
that  I  can  give  you  of  what  the  Victoria  Falls  are  like. 
They  are  unique  in  that  the  level  of  the  land  above  the 
falls  is  the  same  as  that  below,  the  entire  breadth  of  the 
second  greatest  river  in  Africa  falling  precipitately  into 
a  deep  and  narrow  chasm,  from  which  the  only  outlet 
is  an  opening  in  the  rock  less  than  one  hundred  yards 
wide.  From  the  Boiling  Pot,  as  this  seething  caldron  of 
waters  is  called,  the  contents  of  the  Zambezi  rush  with 
unbridled  fury  through  a  deep  and  narrow  gorge  of 
basaltic  cliffs,  which,  nowhere  inferior  to  the  rapids  at 
Niagara,  extends  with  many  zigzag  windings  for  more 
than  forty  miles.  My  first  glimpse  of  the  falls  was  in 
the  early  morning,  and  the  lovely,  reeking  splendour  of 
the  scene,  as  the  great,  placid  river,  all  unconscious  of 
its  fate,  rolls  out  of  the  mysterious  depths  of  Africa, 
comes  suddenly  to  the  precipice's  brink,  and  plunges 
in  one  mighty  torrent  into  the  obscurity  of  the  cavern 
below,  the  rolling  clouds  of  spray,  the  trembling  earth, 
the  sombre  rain-forest  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  a  rain- 
bow stealing  over  all,  made  a  picture  which  will  remain 
sharp  and  clear  in  my  memory  as  long  as  I  live. 

The  Outer  Lands  are  almost  all  exploited;  the  work 
of  the  pioneer  and  the  frontiersman  is  nearly  finished, 
and  in  another  decade  or  so  we  shall  see  their  like  no 

221 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

more.  Rhodesia  is  the  last  of  the  great  new  countries 
open  to  colonisation  under  Anglo-Saxon  ideals  of 
government  and  climatically  suitable  for  the  propaga- 
tion of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  Though  the  handful  of 
hardy  settlers  who  have  already  made  it  their  home 
speak  with  the  burr  of  the  shires  instead  of  the  drawl 
of  the  plains;  though  they  wear  corded  riding-breeches 
instead  of  leather  "chaps";  and  stuff  Cavendish  into 
their  pipes  instead  of  rolling  their  cigarettes  from  Bull 
Durham,  they  and  the  passing  plainsmen  of  our  own 
West  are,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  brothers  under 
their  skins. 

With  the  completion  of  the  Cape- to- Cairo  trunk 
line  and  its  subsidiary  systems  to  either  coast,  with  the 
exploitation  of  the  mineral  deposits  which  constitute  so 
much  of  Rhodesia's  wealth,  and  with  the  harnessing  of 
the  great  falls  and  the  utilisation  of  the  limitless  power 
which  will  be  obtainable  from  them,  this  virgin  territory 
in  the  heart  of  Africa  bids  fair  to  be  to  the  home  and 
fortune  seekers  of  to-morrow  what  the  American  West 
was  to  those  of  yesterday,  and  what  northwestern 
Canada  is  to  those  of  to-day.  A  few  years  more  and  it 
will  be  a  developed  and  prosperous  nation.  To-day  it 
is  the  last  of  the  world's  frontiers,  where  the  hardy  and 
adventurous  of  our  race  are  still  fighting  the  battles  and 
solving  the  problems  of  civilisation. 


222 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

THE  most  significant  thing  I  saw  in  South  Africa 
was  an  old-fashioned  gabled,  whitewashed  house. 
The  name  of  it  is  Groote  Schuur,  and  it  stands  in  very 
beautiful  grounds  on  the  slopes  of  Table  Mountain,  a 
mile  or  so  at  the  back  of  Cape  Town.  That  house  was 
the  home  of  Cecil  John  Rhodes,  who,  more  than  any- 
other  man,  was  responsible  for  the  Boer  War  and  for 
the  resultant  British  predominance  south  of  the  Congo, 
and  in  his  will  he  directed  that  it  should  be  used  as  the 
official  residence  of  the  prime  minister  of  that  South 
African  confederation  which  his  prophetic  mind  fore- 
saw. The  welding  of  the  Boer  republics  of  the  Trans- 
vaal and  the  Orange  Free  State  with  the  British  col- 
onies of  Natal  and  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  produced 
the  great  antipodal  commonwealth  of  which  the  empire- 
builder  dreamed,  but  the  man  who,  as  prime  minister, 
dwells  under  Groote  Schuur's  gabled  roof  and  directs 
the  policies  of  the  new  nation  is  a  member  of  that  Boer 
race  which  Rhodes  hated  and  feared  and  whose  politi- 
cal power  he  firmly  believed  had  been  broken  forever. 
Fortune  never  doubled  in  her  tracks  more  completely 
than  when  she  made  General  Louis  Botha,  the  last 
leader  of  Boer  troops  in  the  field,  the  first  prime  minister 
of  a  united  South  Africa. 

223 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

Strange  things  have  happened  in  South  Africa  in 
the  dozen  years  that  have  passed  since  the  musketry 
crackled  along  the  Modder  and  the  Tugela,  for  the 
country  that  the  world  believed  had  been  won  for  good 
and  all  by  British  arms  is  being  slowly  but  surely  rewon 
by  Boer  astuteness.  Already  the  bonds  which  hold  the 
new  Union  of  South  Africa  to  the  British  Empire  have 
become  very  loose  ones.  The  man  who,  as  prime  min- 
ister, is  the  virtual  ruler  of  the  young  nation,  is  a  far- 
sighted  and  sagacious  Dutchman,  while  seven  out  of  the 
eleven  portfolios  in  his  cabinet  are  held  by  men  of  the 
same  race.  The  Union  not  only  makes  its  own  laws  and 
fixes  its  own  tariffs,  but  the  leading  Dutch  organ  of  the 
country  recently  went  so  far  as  to  urge  that,  in  case 
Great  Britain  should  become  engaged  in  a  European 
war,  it  would  be  possible  and  might  be  proper  for  South 
Africa  to  declare  its  neutrality  and  take  no  part  in  it. 
Not  only  is  the  white  population  of  the  Union  over- 
whelmingly Dutch,  but  in  many  parts  of  the  country 
English  is  becoming  merely  a  subsidiary  tongue,  while 
it  is  not  at  all  unlikely,  in  view  of  the  bill  recently  passed 
by  the  Parliament  making  Dutch  compulsory  in  the 
schools,  that  the  language  of  the  Netherlands  will 
eventually  become  the  predominant  tongue  through- 
out all  South  Africa.  Most  suggestive  of  all,  perhaps, 
the  Orange  River  Colony,  upon  entering  the  Union, 
promptly  reverted  to  its  old  name  of  the  Orange  Free 
State,  which  it  bore  before  the  war  with  England. 
Indeed,  it  may  sadly  perplex  the  historians  of  the  future 
to  decide  who  won  the  Boer  War. 

224 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

If  South  Africa  is  to  become  a  union  in  fact  as  well 
as  in  name  its  people  will  have  to  face  and  solve  the 
great  national  problems  of  race  and  colour.  Of  these, 
the  former  are,  if  not  the  more  important,  certainly  the 
more  presssing.  Two  of  the  four  provinces  of  the  Union, 
remember,  are  British  solely  by  right  of  conquest;  a 
third  is  bound  by  the  closest  ties  of  blood  and  tradi- 
tion to  the  Dutch  people;  while  only  one  of  the  four  is 
British  in  sentiment  and  population.  Many  intelligent 
people  with  whom  I  talked,  both  in  England  and  in 
Africa,  assured  me  that  the  formation  of  the  Union  was 
the  first  step  toward  cutting  the  bonds  which  join  South 
Africa  to  the  mother  country.  While  most  Englishmen 
scoff  at  any  such  suggestion,  swaggeringly  asserting  that 
they  "have  whipped  the  Dutch  once  and  can  do  it 
again,"  the  Dutch  retort,  on  the  other  hand,  that  it  took 
England,  with  all  her  financial  and  military  resources, 
four  years,  and  cost  her  tens  of  thousands  of  lives  and 
millions  of  pounds,  to  conquer  the  two  little  Boer  re- 
publics, and  that  she  would  not  have  beaten  them 
then  if  their  money  had  held  out.  Though  there  is 
certainly  no  love  lost  between  the  English  and  the 
Boers,  I  think  that  the  majority  of  the  latter  are  con- 
vinced that  it  is  to  their  own  best  interests  to  be  loyal 
to  the  new  government,  in  the  direction  of  which  they 
have,  after  all,  the  greatest  say. 

The  attitude  which  the  British  Government  has 
adopted  in  its  treatment  of  the  Boer  population  since 
the  close  of  the  war  has  been  remarkable  for  its  generos- 
ity and  far-sightedness.    In  all  its  colonial  history  it  has 

225 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

done  few  wiser  things  than  the  recognition  of  the  mili- 
tary, as  well  as  the  civic,  ability  of  General  Botha.  Not 
only  is  this  sagacious  Dutchman,  who  led  the  forces 
of  the  embattled  Boers  until  dispersed  by  the  tremen- 
dously superior  might  of  England,  and  then  inaugurated 
a  guerilla  warfare  by  which  the  conflict  was  prolonged  for 
two  years  with  victories  which  will  go  down  in  history 
as  notable,  now  prime  minister  of  the  new  nation,  but, 
early  in  191 2,  he  was  appointed  to  the  rank  of  general 
in  that  very  army  which  he  so  long  and  so  valorously 
defied.  This  is,  I  believe,  an  almost  unprecedented 
instance  of  the  wise  and  politic  exercise  of  imperial  au- 
thority in  the  strengthening  of  imperial  power  and  can 
hardly  fail  to  result  in  increasing  the  loyalty  of  South 
Africa's  Boer  population. 

The  men  who  planned  and  brought  the  Union  into 
being  have  had  to  pick  their  steps  with  care,  and  more 
than  once  their  ingenuity  has  been  taxed  to  the  utmost 
to  avoid  the  outcropping  of  racial  jealousies  and  en- 
mities. The  white  population  of  South  Africa,  you 
should  understand,  consists  of  three  classes:  the  Boers, 
which  means  simply  "tillers  of  the  soil,"  and  which  is 
the  name  applied  by  the  South  African  Dutch  to  them- 
selves; the  Colonials,  or  British  immigrants,  most  of 
whom  have  come  out  with  the  intention  of  returning 
to  England  as  soon  as  they  have  made  their  fortunes; 
and,  lastly,  the  Africanders,  men  whose  fathers  were 
British  immigrants,  but  who  were  themselves  born  and 
bred  in  South  Africa  and  who  have  intermarried  with 
the  Boers  so  often  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  draw 

226 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

the  line  between  the  races.  Given  these  three  factions, 
therefore,  with  their  different  customs,  ideals,  and  as- 
pirations, and  it  needs  no  saying  that  the  task  confront- 
ing those  who  are  responsible  for  the  smooth  working 
of  the  governmental  machinery  is  no  easy  one.  The 
political  jealousy  existing  between  Briton  and  Boer  in 
South  Africa  to-day  is  comparable  only  to  that  which 
existed  between  Northerners  and  Southerners  dur- 
ing reconstruction  days.  The  racial  antagonism  which 
arose  over  the  location  of  the  Federal  capital,  and  which 
threatened  at  one  time  to  upset  the  whole  scheme  of 
federation,  was  only  overcome  by  the  novel  expedient 
of  creating  two  capitals  instead  of  one,  Pretoria,  the 
old  capital  of  the  Transvaal,  where  Kriiger  held  sway, 
being  made  the  residence  of  the  Governor-General  and 
the  seat  of  the  executive  power,  while  the  Parliament 
sits  in  Cape  Town. 

The  Union  Parliament  consists  of  a  Senate  having 
forty  members — eight  of  whom  are  appointed  by  the 
Governor-General,  the  other  thirty-two  being  elected, 
eight  by  each  province — and  a  House  of  Assembly  with 
121  members  chosen  as  follows:  Cape  of  Good  Hope 
51,  Natal  17,  Transvaal  36,  and  Orange  Free  State  17. 
No  voter  is  disqualified  by  race  or  colour,  but  the  mem- 
bers of  Parliament  must  be  English  subjects  of  European 
descent  who  have  lived  in  the  colony  for  at  least  five 
years.  Now,  a  very  great  deal,  so  far  as  the  well-being 
of  the  native  races  of  South  Africa  are  concerned,  de- 
pends upon  the  interpretation  that  is  given  to  the 
words  "European  descent."    In  Cuban  society  every 

227 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

one  who  is  not  absolutely  black  is  treated  as  white, 
whereas  in  the  United  States  every  one  who  is  suspected 
of  having  even  a  "touch  of  the  tar  brush"  is  treated  as 
black.  Though  the  Federal  constitution  is  very  far 
from  giving  the  native  races  a  standing  equal  to  that  of 
the  whites,  intelligent  government  of  the  natives  is 
promised  by  a  clause  which  provides  that  four  of  the 
Senate,  out  of  a  total  of  forty,  shall  be  appointed  be- 
cause of  their  special  knowledge  of  the  wants  and  wishes 
of  the  coloured  population. 

If  the  racial  problem  is  the  most  pressing,  the 
colour  problem  is  by  far  the  most  serious  question  be- 
fore the  people  of  South  Africa,  for  the  blacks  not  only 
outnumber  the  whites  four  to  one,  but  there  is  the  ever- 
present  danger  that  rebellion  may  spring  up  among  them 
without  the  slightest  warning.  Apart  from  all  other 
considerations,  the  very  numbers  of  the  natives  in 
South  Africa  form  a  dangerous  element  in  the  problem, 
for  there  are  close  on  five  million  blacks  south  of  the 
Limpopo  as  against  a  million  and  a  quarter  Europeans. 
If,  in  our  own  South,  where  the  blacks  are  only  half  as 
numerous  as  the  whites,  there  exists  a  problem  of  which 
no  satisfactory  solution  has  been  offered,  how  much 
more  serious  is  the  state  of  affairs  in  a  country  where  a 
handful  of  white  men — themselves  split  into  two  camps 
by  racial  and  political  animosities — are  face  to  face  with 
a  vast,  warlike,  and  constantly  increasing  native  popu- 
lation! In  fact,  the  colour  problem  which  has  arisen 
would  be  strikingly  similar  to  that  in  our  Southern 
States  were  it  not  that  there  is  a  vast  difference  in  type 

228 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

and  temperament  between  the  South  African  native  and 
the  Southern  darky.  The  native  races  are  three  in 
number:  the  Bushmen,  the  aborigines  of  South  Africa, 
a  race  of  pygmy  savages  of  a  very  low  order  of  intelli- 
gence, who  are  fast  becoming  extinct;  the  Hottentots, 
a  people  considerably  more  advanced  toward  civilisa- 
tion but  rapidly  decreasing  from  epidemics;  and  the 
Kaffirs,  as  the  various  sections  of  the  great  Zulu  race 
are  commonly  known,  a  warlike,  courageous,  and  hand- 
some people  who,  since  the  British  Government  ended 
their  inter-tribal  wars,  are  rapidly  multiplying,  having 
increased  fifteen  per  cent  in  the  last  seven  years.  Al- 
though the  Europeans  in  South  Africa  universally  regard 
the  Kaffirs  with  contempt,  it  is  not  altogether  unmixed 
with  fear,  for  a  nation  of  fighting  men,  such  as  the 
Zulus,  who  organised  a  great  military  power,  enacted  a 
strict  code  of  laws,  and  held  the  white  man  at  bay  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  will  not  always  remain  in  a  state  of 
subjection,  nor  will  they  tamely  submit  to  being  driven 
into  the  wilderness  north  of  the  Zambezi,  a  solution  of 
the  colour  problem  which  has  frequently  been  proposed. 
That  the  attitude  of  Great  Britain  toward  the 
colour  question  in  South  Africa  is  similar  to  that  of  the 
Northern  States  toward  the  same  problem  in  the  South, 
while  the  attitude  of  the  European  settlers  is  almost 
identical  with  that  of  the  Southerners,  is  strikingly 
illustrated  by  a  case  which  recently  occurred  in  South 
Africa,  in  which  a  European  jury  found  a  native  guilty 
of  attempting  to  assault  a  white  woman,  a  crime  as  un- 
known under  the  old  regime  in  South  Africa  as  it  was 

229 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

in  our  own  South  before  the  Civil  War.  Though  the 
judge  sentenced  the  man  to  death,  the  Governor- 
General  promptly  commuted  the  sentence  on  the  ground 
that  the  "fact  of  crime"  had  not  been  established.  Im- 
mediately a  storm  of  protest  and  indignation  arose 
among  the  white  population  which  swept  the  country 
from  the  Zambezi  to  the  Cape,  the  settlers  asserting 
that  if  the  decree  of  commutation  were  to  form  a  prec- 
edent, no  white  woman  would  be  safe  in  South  Africa. 
The  echoes  of  this  controversy  had  not  yet  died  away 
before  two  other  cases  occurred  which  intensely  ag- 
gravated the  situation.  One  was  the  case  of  a  settler 
named  Lewis,  who  shot  a  native  for  an  insult  to  his 
daughters,  while  the  other  was  that  of  the  Honourable 
Galbraith  Cole,  a  son  of  the  Earl  of  Enniskillen,  who 
killed  a  native  on  the  alleged  charge  of  theft.  Both 
men  were  tried  by  white  juries  on  charges  of  murder, 
and  both  were  promptly  acquitted,  though  Mr.  Cole, 
in  spite  of  his  acquittal,  was  deported  from  South  Africa 
by  the  government.  As  though  to  emphasise  their 
colour  prejudice,  the  lawyers  of  the  Union  about  this 
time  took  concerted  action  to  prevent  native  attorneys 
from  practising  among  them.  How,  then,  can  the 
natives,  who  form  three  fourths  of  the  population  of  the 
new  Union,  and  who  are  far  more  children  of  the  soil 
than  the  Europeans,  be  said  to  have  protection  of  their 
most  elementary  rights  if  they  are  to  be  debarred  from 
having  men  of  their  own  colour  and  race  to  defend 
them,  and  if  no  white  jury  can  be  trusted  to  do  justice 
where  a  native  is  concerned? 

230 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

The  imperial  government  deserves  the  greatest 
credit,  however,  for  the  steps  it  has  taken  to  preserve 
his  lands  to  the  native.  In  the  native  protectorates  and 
reservations  of  Basutoland,  Swaziland,  Bechuanaland, 
Griqualand,  Tembuland,  and  Pondoland  the  govern- 
ment has  reserved  for  the  exclusive  use  and  benefit  of 
the  natives  territories  considerably  larger  than  the  com- 
bined area  of  our  three  Pacific-coast  States.  Though 
these  territories  are  under  the  control  of  British  resi- 
dent commissioners,  the  native  chiefs  are  allowed  to 
exercise  jurisdiction  according  to  tribal  laws  and  cus- 
toms in  all  civil  matters  between  natives,  special  courts 
having  been  established  to  deal  with  serious  civil  or 
criminal  matters  in  which  Europeans  are  concerned. 
Though  certain  small  areas  of  land  in  these  rich  terri- 
tories are  held  by  whites,  the  bulk  of  the  country  is  re- 
served for  the  exclusive  use  and  benefit  of  the  natives, 
and  it  is  not  at  all  likely  that  any  more  land  will  be 
alienated  for  purposes  of  settlement  by  Europeans. 
(Could  anything  be  in  more  striking  contrast  to  our 
disgraceful  treatment  of  the  Indian?)  Though  South 
Africa  has  much  in  common  with  Canada,  and  with 
Australia,  and  with  our  own  Southwest,  it  is,  when  all 
is  said  and  done,  a  black  man's  country  ruled  by  the 
white  man,  and  it  is  upon  the  justice,  liberality,  and  in- 
telligence of  this  rule  that  the  peace  and  prosperity  of 
the  young  nation  must  eventually  depend. 

Two  great  obstacles  will  always  stand  in  the  way 
of  the  white  man  having  an  easy  row  to  hoe  in  South 
Africa:  the  climate  and  the  lack  of  water.    Though  the 

231 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

climate  of  the  uplands  is  pleasant  and  makes  men  want 
to  lead  an  outdoor  life,  I  am  not  at  all  certain  that  it 
tends  to  develop  or  maintain  the  keenness  and  energy 
characteristic  of  dwellers  in  the  north  temperate  zone. 
The  climate  of  the  coastal  regions  is,  moreover,  dis- 
tinctly bad,  the  sharply  cold  nights  and  the  misty, 
steaming  days  producing  the  coast  fever,  which  is  a 
combination  of  rheumatism,  influenza,  dysentery,  and 
malaria,  and  is  very  debilitating  indeed.  The  white 
man  who  intends  to  make  his  permanent  home  in  South 
Africa  has,  therefore,  two  alternatives :  he  can  submit  to 
the  exactions  of  the  climate,  take  life  easily,  leave  the 
black  bottle  severely  alone,  and  live  a  long  but  unpro- 
gressive  life,  or  he  can  exhaust  his  energies  and  under- 
mine his  health  in  fighting  the  climate  and  die  of  old 
age  at  sixty.  If  the  climate  is  not  all  that  is  desirable 
for  men,  it  is  infinitely  worse  for  animals,  for  every  dis- 
ease known  to  the  veterinarian  abounds.  Time  and 
again  the  herds  of  the  country  have  been  almost  ex- 
terminated by  the  hoof-and-mouth  disease,  or  by  the 
rinderpest,  a  highly  contagious  cattle  distemper  which 
is  probably  identical  with  that  "murrain"  with  which 
Moses  smote  the  herds  of  ancient  Egypt  and  which 
helped  to  bring  Pharaoh  to  terms.  In  the  low-lying 
regions  along  the  East  Coast,  and  in  the  country  north 
of  the  Limpopo  it  is  necessary  to  keep  horses  shut  up 
every  night  until  the  poisonous  mists  and  dew  have  dis- 
appeared before  the  sun  lest  they  contract  the  "blue- 
tongue,  "  a  disease  characterised  by  a  swollen,  purplish- 
hued  tongue  which  kills  them  in  a  few  hours  by  choking; 

232 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

while  in  certain  other  districts,  especially  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  Zambezi  and  of  the  Portuguese  territories,  the 
deadly  tsetse-fly  makes  it  impossible  to  keep  domestic 
animals  at  all. 

The  other  great  obstacle  to  the  prosperity  of  South 
Africa  is  the  lack  of  water,  for  less  than  one-tenth  of  the 
country  is  suitable  for  raising  any  kind  of  a  crop  with- 
out water  being  led  onto  it — and  irrigation  by  private 
enterprise  is  out  of  the  question,  as  even  the  indomitable 
Rhodes  was  forced  to  admit.  The  government  is  fully 
alive  to  the  crying  need  for  water,  however,  and  a 
scheme  for  a  national  system  of  irrigation  is  filling  a 
large  part  of  the  Ministry  of  Agriculture's  programme. 
If  carried  out,  this  scheme  will  enormously  enlarge  the 
area  of  tillage,  for  some  of  the  regions  now  hopelessly 
arid,  such  as  the  Karroo,  have  a  soil  of  amazing  fertility 
and  need  only  water  to  make  them  produce  luxuriant 
crops.  Were  the  rains  of  the  wet  season  conserved  by 
means  of  the  great  tanks  so  common  in  India,  or  were 
artesian  wells  sunk  like  those  which  have  transformed 
the  desert  regions  of  Algeria  and  Arizona,  the  vast 
stretch  of  the  Karroo,  instead  of  being  yellow  with 
sand,  might  be  yellow  with  waving  corn. 

Though  agriculture  is,  and  probably  always  will 
be,  the  least  important  of  the  country's  great  natural 
sources  of  wealth,  the  development  of  rural  industries  is, 
thanks  to  governmental  assistance,  steadily  progressing. 
Roads  and  bridges  are  being  built,  experimental  farms 
organised  on  a  large  scale,  the  services  of  scientific 
experts  engaged,  blooded  live-stock  imported,  agricul- 

233 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

tural  banks  established,  and  literature  dealing  with 
agricultural  problems  is  being  distributed  broadcast  over 
the  country.  The  exports  of  fruit  are  steadily  increas- 
ing; sugar  is  being  grown  on  the  hot  lands  of  Natal  and 
might  be  grown  all  the  way  to  the  Zambezi;  tea  has 
lately  been  introduced  in  the  coastal  regions  and  would 
probably  also  flourish  in  the  north;  the  tobacco  of  the 
Transvaal  is  as  good  a  pipe  tobacco  as  any  grown,  and 
those  who  have  become  accustomed  to  it  will  use  no 
other;  with  the  exception  of  the  olive,  which  does  not 
thrive,  and  of  the  vine,  which  succeeds  only  in  a  limited 
area  around  Cape  Town,  nearly  all  of  the  products  of 
the  temperate  zone  and  of  subtropical  regions  can  be 
grown  successfully.  Though  South  Africa  unquestion- 
ably presents  many  promising  openings  in  farming,  in 
fruit-growing,  and  in  truck  gardening,  it  is  folly  for  a 
man  to  attempt  any  one  of  them  unless  he  possesses 
practical  experience,  a  modest  capital,  and  a  willingness 
to  work  hard  and  put  up  with  many  inconveniences, 
for  in  no  other  English-speaking  country  are  the  neces- 
sities of  life  so  dear  and  so  poor  in  quality,  nowhere  is 
labour  so  unsatisfactory,  and  nowhere  is  lack  of  comfort 
so  general. 

South  Africa's  chief  source  of  wealth  is,  and  always 
will  be,  its  minerals.  It  was,  strangely  enough,  the 
latest  source  to  become  known,  for  nobody  suspected 
it  until,  in  1867,  a  Boer  hunter,  his  eye  caught  by  a 
sparkle  among  the  pebbles  on  the  Orange  River,  picked 
up  the  first  diamond.  The  diamonds  found  in  that 
region  since  then  have  amounted  in  value  to  nearly  a 

234 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

billion  dollars.  Fifteen  years  after  the  great  diamond 
finds  which  sent  the  adventurers  and  fortune-seekers 
of  the  world  thronging  to  South  Africa,  came  the  still 
greater  gold  discoveries  on  the  Witwatersrand,  or 
"The  Rand,"  as  the  reef  of  gold-bearing  quartz  in 
the  Transvaal  is  commonly  called.  The  total  value 
of  the  gold  production  of  the  Rand  for  the  twenty- 
five  years  ending  in  June,  1910,  was  nearly  one  and  a 
half  billion  dollars.  But  though  the  Rand  produces 
more  gold  than  America  and  Australia  put  together; 
though  Kimberley  has  a  virtual  monopoly  of  the 
world's  supply  of  diamonds;  though  seams  of  silver, 
iron,  coal,  copper,  and  tin  are  only  waiting  for  capital 
and  skill  to  unlock  their  treasures,  South  Africa  is,  in 
the  midst  of  this  stupendous  wealth,  poor,  for  she  is  as 
dependent  on  foreign  sources  for  her  food  supply  as 
England.  In  other  words,  a  region  as  large  as  all  the 
States  west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  in  which  flourish 
nearly  all  the  products  of  every  zone  from  the  Equator 
to  the  Pole,  is  unable  to  supply  the  wants  of  a  white 
population  which  is  less  than  that  of  Connecticut.  In 
California,  on  the  other  hand,  which  is  strikingly  simi- 
lar to  South  Africa  in  many  respects,  the  cultivation  of 
the  land  kept  pace  with  the  production  of  gold  and 
eventually  outstripped  it.  Until  the  mining  industry 
of  South  Africa  is  likewise  put  upon  a  solid  agricul- 
tural foundation,  the  country  can  never  hope  to  be  self- 
supporting. 

In  many  respects  Johannesburg,  the  "golden  city," 
is  the  most  interesting  place  I  have  ever  seen.    In  1886 

235 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

it  was  nothing  but  a  collection  of  miserable  shanties. 
To-day  "  Joburg,"  as  it  is  commonly  called,  is  a  city  of 
a  quarter  of  a  million  people,  with  asphalted  streets, 
imposing  office  buildings,  one  of  the  best  street-railway 
systems  that  I  know,  the  finest  hotel  south  of  the  Equa- 
tor, and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  country  clubs  in  the 
world.  It  is  a  city  of  contrasts,  however,  for  you  can 
stand  under  the  porte-cochere  of  the  palatial  Carlton 
Hotel  and  hear  the  click  of  roulette  balls,  the  raucous 
scrape  of  fiddles,  and  the  shouts  of  drunken  miners  issu- 
ing from  a  row  of  gambling-hells,  dance-halls,  and  gin 
palaces  still  housed  in  one-story  buildings  of  corrugated 
iron;  a  beplumed  and  bepainted  Zulu  will  pull  you 
in  a  'rickshaw,  over  pavements  as  smooth  and  clean  as 
those  of  Fifth  Avenue,  to  a  theatre  where  you  will  have 
the  privilege  of  paying  Metropolitan  Opera  House  prices 
to  witness  much  the  same  sort  of  a  performance  that 
you  would  find  in  a  Bowery  music-hall;  in  the  Rand 
Club  you  can  see  bronzed  and  booted  prospectors,  fresh 
from  the  mining  districts  of  Rhodesia  or  the  Congo, 
leaning  over  the  bar,  cheek-by-jowl  with  sleek,  immacu- 
lately groomed  financiers  from  London  and  Berlin  and 
New  York.  Johannesburg  is  a  spendthrift  city,  a  place 
of  easy-come  and  easy-go,  for  the  mine-workers  are  paid 
big  wages,  the  mine-managers  receive  big  salaries,  and 
the  mine-owners  make  big  profits,  and  they  all  spend 
their  money  as  readily  as  they  make  it.  The  English 
miner  averages  five  dollars  a  day,  which  he  spends 
between  Saturday  night  and  Monday  morning  in  a 
drunken  spree,  while  a  native  labourer  will  save  enough 

236 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

in  a  few  months  to  keep  him  in  idleness  and  his  concep- 
tion of  comfort  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

There  is  pleasant  society  in  Johannesburg  and 
much  hospitality  to  a  stranger.  I  took  nearly  a  score 
of  letters  of  introduction  with  me  to  the  Rand,  but  one 
would  have  done  as  well,  for  you  present  one  letter,  and 
at  the  dinner  which  the  man  to  whom  it  is  addressed 
promptly  gives  for  you  at  the  Rand  Club  or  at  the  Carl- 
ton you  will  meet  several  of  the  other  people  to  whom 
you  bear  introductions.  Through  their  club  life  and 
their  business  relations  the  English  and  Americans  in 
South  Africa  are  linked  together  in  acquaintance  like 
rings  in  a  shirt  of  chain-mail,  so  that  if  a  man  in  Bula- 
wayo  or  Kimberley  or  Johannesburg  gets  to  living  be- 
yond his  income,  or  loses  heavily  at  cards,  or  pays  undue 
attention  to  another  man's  wife,  they  will  be  discussing 
his  affairs  in  the  club  bars  or  on  the  hotel  verandas  of 
Cape  Town  and  Durban  within  a  fortnight.  I  found 
that  nearly  all  of  the  mines  on  the  Rand  are  managed 
by  Americans,  and  that  the  mine-owners,  who  are  near- 
ly all  English  or  German,  preferred  them  to  any  other 
nationality,  which  struck  me  as  being  very  compli- 
mentary to  the  administrative  and  mechanical  abilities 
of  our  people.  One  of  these  American  mine-managers 
drove  forty  miles  in  his  motor-car  so  as  to  shake  hands 
with  me,  merely  because  he  had  learned  in  a  round- 
about way  that  I  came  from  the  same  part  of  New  York 
State  as  himself,  while  another  fellow-countryman,  who 
had  made  a  great  fortune  during  the  Boer  War  by  con- 
tracting to  wash  the  clothes  of  the  British  army,  and 

237 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

received  war-time  prices  for  his  work,  kidnapped  me 
from  the  hotel  where  I  was  staying,  and  landed  me, 
baggage  and  all,  in  his  home,  and  actually  felt  affronted 
when  I  tried  to  leave  after  a  week. 

Few  places  could  be  more  unlike  Johannesburg 
than  Pretoria,  the  new  capital  of  the  Union,  only  thirty 
miles  away.  It  is  as  different  from  the  "golden  city"  as 
sleepy  Bruges  is  from  bustling  Antwerp;  as  Tarry  town, 
New  York,  is  from  Paterson,  New  Jersey.  At  first 
sight  I  was  surprised  to  find  so  English  a  town,  but  after 
I  had  strolled  in  the  shade  of  the  wooden  arcades  formed 
by  the  broad  verandas  of  the  shops  I  decided  that  the 
atmosphere  of  the  city  was  Indian;  the  rows  of  mud- 
bespattered  saddle-horses  tied  to  hitching-posts  along 
the  main  streets  and  the  rural  produce  being  sold  from 
wagons  in  the  central  market-place  recalled  our  own 
West;  but  the  substantial,  white-plastered  houses,  with 
their  old-fashioned  stoeps,  their  red-brick  sidewalks,  and 
their  prim  and  formal  gardens,  finally  convinced  me  that 
the  town  was,  after  all,  Dutch.  Every  visitor  to  Pre- 
toria goes  to  see  Kriiger's  house,  the  low,  whitewashed 
dwelling  with  the  white  lions  on  the  stoep,  where  the 
stubborn  old  President  used  to  sit,  smoking  his  long  pipe 
and  drinking  his  black  coffee  and  giving  parental  advice 
to  his  people.  Across  the  way  is  the  old  Dutch  church 
where  he  used  to  hold  forth  on  Sundays,  with  the  gold 
hands  still  missing  from  the  clock-face  on  its  steeple,  for 
in  the  last  days  of  the  South  African  Republic  they  were 
melted  down  and  went  to  swell  the  slender  war-chest  of 
the  Boer  army.    In  the  cemetery  hard  by  the  crafty, 

238 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

indomitable  old  man  lies  buried,  while  the  hated  flag 
against  which  he  fought  so  long  flies  over  the  capital 
where  he  collected  his  guns  and  hatched  his  schemes  of 
conquest,  and  within  sight  of  his  black-marble  tomb 
there  are  rising  in  brick  and  stone  the  great  new  build- 
ings which  mark  Pretoria  as  the  capital  of  a  united 
South  Africa. 

Thirty  miles  northward  across  the  veldt  from  Pre- 
toria is  the  great  hole  in  the  ground  known  as  the  Pre- 
mier Diamond  Mine,  the  newest  and  potentially  the 
richest  of  the  South  African  diamond  fields.  Here, 
in  January,  1905,  the  surface  manager,  a  Scotchman 
named  McHardy,  while  strolling  through  the  pit  during 
the  noon  hour,  saw  the  sparkle  of  what  he  at  first  took 
to  be  a  broken  bottle.  Prying  it  loose  with  his  stick 
from  the  surrounding  rubble,  he  found  it  to  be  a  dia- 
mond as  large  as  a  good-sized  orange.  This  remarkable 
stone,  which  is  the  largest  diamond  heretofore  found, 
has  since  become  known  to  the  world  as  the  Great  Culli- 
nan,  being  named  after  Sir  Thomas  Cullinan,  one  of  the 
owners  of  the  mine.  It  is  a  pure  white  stone,  4  by  234 
by  2  inches,  weighing  3,025  carats,  or  1.37  pounds,  and 
worth  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  million  dollars.  As 
the  surface  cleavage  shows  that  it  is  undoubtedly  a 
fragment  of  a  much  larger  crystal,  one  cannot  but  won- 
der what  the  original  stone  was  like.  The  Great  Cul- 
linan was  immediately  purchased  by  the  Transvaal 
Government — or,  rather,  the  mine's  share  was  pur- 
chased, for  the  government  receives  sixty  per  cent  of 
the  value  of  all  diamonds  found — and  presented  to  King 
Edward.    The  question  then  arose  of  how  so  valuable 

239 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

a  gem  could  be  transported  to  England  in  safety,  for 
no  sooner  had  its  discovery  been  announced  than  the 
criminals  of  the  world  began  to  lay  their  plans  to  get 
possession  of  it.  After  many  discussions  and  innumer- 
able suggestions  and  much  newspaper  comment,  four 
men,  armed  to  the  teeth,  left  the  Premier  Mine,  carry- 
ing with  them  a  red-leather  despatch  box.  Crossing 
the  thirty  miles  of  veldt  to  Pretoria  under  heavy  escort, 
they  were  conveyed  in  a  private  car  to  Cape  Town;  in 
the  liner  by  which  they  took  passage  to  England  a  safe 
had  been  specially  installed  and  the  red-leather  de- 
spatch box  was  placed  in  it,  two  of  the  men  remaining  on 
duty  in  front  of  it  night  and  day.  From  Southampton  a 
special  train  took  them  up  to  London  and  a  strong  guard 
of  detectives  and  police  surrounded  them  on  their  way 
to  the  bank  at  which  the  diamond  was  to  be  delivered. 
When  the  despatch  box  was  opened  in  the  presence  of  a 
group  of  curious  officials  it  was  found  to  contain  nothing 
more  valuable  than  a  lump  of  coal !  The  stone  itself — 
and  as  Sir  Thomas  Cullinan  told  me  the  story  it  is  un- 
doubtedly true — was  wrapped  in  cotton  wool  and  tissue 
paper,  put  in  a  pasteboard  box,  wrapped  up  in  brown 
paper,  and  sent  to  England  by  parcels  post,  not  even 
the  post-office  authorities  being  given  an  inkling  that  it 
was  in  the  mails.  I  almost  forgot  to  mention,  by  the 
way,' that  McHardy,  the  discoverer  of  the  great  stone, 
was  given  a  bonus  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  though  it  is 
a  sad  and  peculiar  commentary  that  within  a  year  his 
wife  died,  the  bank  in  which  he  put  the  money  failed, 
and  his  house  burned  down. 

The  diamonds  are  found  in  beds  of  clay,  of  which 
240 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

there  are  two  layers :  a  soft,  yellow  clay,  lying  on  or  near 
the  surface,  and  a  hard,  blue  clay,  lying  deeper.  These 
clays,  which  are  usually  covered  by  a  thin  stratum  of 
calcareous  rock,  are  supposed  to  be  the  remains  of  mud 
pits  due  to  volcanic  action,  such  as  the  boiling  springs 
of  the  Yellowstone.  Imagine  a  great  hollow,  looking 
like  a  gigantic  bowl,  perhaps  half  a  mile  in  diameter  and 
one  hundred  feet  deep,  enclosed  by  a  series  of  barbed- 
wire  fences  and  filled  by  thousands  of  Kaffir  workmen, 
looking,  from  a  distance,  like  a  gigantic  swarm  of 
ants — such  was  my  first  impression  of  the  Premier 
Mine.  The  native  labourers,  who  work  in  three  shifts 
of  eight  hours  each,  after  cleaving  the  "hard-blue" 
with  their  picks,  load  it  onto  trolley-cars,  which  are 
attached  to  a  cable  and  hauled  to  the  surface  of  the  pit, 
where  it  is  spread  on  mile-long  fields  and  exposed  for 
several  months  to  rain,  wind,  and  sun  so  as  to  effect  de- 
composition. The  softened  lumps  of  earth,  after  being 
brought  into  still  smaller  fragments  by  the  pickaxe,  are 
then  sent  to  the  mills,  where  they  are  crushed,  pulver- 
ised, washed,  and  finally  sent  to  the  "greaser"  to  get  at 
the  stones.  Until  very  recently  men  had  to  be  em- 
ployed to  sort  the  washed  "concentrates"  and  pick  out 
the  diamonds.  But  they  would  miss  some.  And  the 
men  had  to  be  guarded  lest  they  steal  the  gems.  And 
detectives  had  to  be  hired  to  watch  the  guards  who 
watched  the  men.  But  one  day  a  mine  employee  named 
Kirsten  happened  to  notice  that  the  diamonds,  no  mat- 
ter how  small  or  discoloured,  always  stuck  to  a  greasy 
surface,  just  as  iron  filings  stick  to  a  magnet,  while  the 

241 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

dirt  and  other  stones  did  not.  That  was  the  suggestion 
which  led  to  the  invention  of  the  "Kirsten  greaser/'  a 
series  of  sloping  boards,  heavily  coated  with  grease, 
which  are  gently  agitated  as  the  mud  and  slime  contain- 
ing the  diamonds  are  slowly  washed  over  them,  and 
which  never  fail  to  collect  the  precious  stones. 

At  Kimberley,  which  is  the  only  other  diamond- 
producing  district  of  any  importance  in  South  Africa, 
the  gem-bearing  ground  extends  over  an  area  of  but 
thirty-three  acres,  so  that  open  mining  has  long  since, 
given  way  to  shafts,  which  have  now  been  sunk  to  a 
depth  of  two  thousand  five  hundred  feet,  galleries  be- 
ing driven  through  the  producing  ground  at  every  forty- 
foot  level,  precisely  as  in  a  coal  mine.  Kimberley  has 
a  romantic  and  picturesque  history.  In  1869  you  could 
not  have  found  its  name  upon  the  map.  In  the  follow- 
ing year  a  Boer  hunter,  pitching  his  tent  on  the  banks 
of  the  Orange  River,  chanced  to  pick  up  a  glittering 
stone  from  among  the  pebbles.  The  news  of  his  find 
making  its  way  overland  to  Cape  Town,  the  submarine 
cables  flashed  it  to  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  so  that 
within  a  twelvemonth  adventurers  and  fortune-seekers 
had  flocked  there  in  tens  of  thousands.  By  187 1  sixteen 
hundred  claims,  each  thirty-one  feet  square,  were  be- 
ing worked,  each  man  digging  out  the  earth  on  his  own 
small  plot,  carrying  it  to  one  side,  pulverising  it  by 
hand,  and  sifting  it  for  diamonds.  The  dirt  from  one 
claim  would  fall  into  a  neighbouring  one,  while  some 
miners  could  not  get  their  dirt  out  at  all  without  crossing 
another's  property,  so  that  quarrels  and  lawsuits  and 

242 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

shooting  affrays  soon  began.  About  this  time  two  quiet, 
uncommunicative,  shabbily  clad  men  appeared  at  Kim- 
berley  and  began  to  buy  up  the  various  claims,  until, 
before  any  one  really  appreciated  what  was  happen- 
ing, the  whole  diamond  industry  of  South  Africa  was  in 
their  hands.  Those  men  were  Cecil  John  Rhodes  and 
Barney  Barnato,  and  the  great  amalgamation  which 
their  skill  and  shrewdness  effected,  now  known  as  the 
DeBeers  Consolidated  Mining  Company,  was  one  of 
the  greatest  coups  in  the  history  of  finance.  It  is  this 
corporation  which  the  women  of  the  world  have  to 
blame  for  keeping  up  the  price  of  diamonds,  for  the  first 
thing  it  did  was  to  close  the  greater  part  of  the  Kim- 
berley  mines,  keeping  just  enough  open  to  produce  the 
amount  of  stones  which  experience  has  proved  that 
Europe  and  America  are  able  to  take  at  a  price  high 
enough  to  leave  a  gratifying  profit.  Although,  as  a 
result  of  this  policy,  the  price  of  diamonds  has  been 
well  maintained,  the  population  of  Kimberley  has  been 
greatly  reduced,  the  one  great  corporation,  with  its 
comparatively  small  staff  of  employees  and  its  labour- 
saving  machinery,  having  taken  the  place  of  the  horde 
of  independent  adventurers  of  the  early  days. 

It  struck  me  that  by  far  the  most  interesting  sights, 
both  at  the  Kimberley  and  the  Premier  mines,  were  the 
so-called  compounds,  in  which  the  native  labourers  are 
confined,  for  the  native  who  hires  out  to  work  in  a  dia- 
mond mine  must  submit,  during  the  term  of  his  con- 
tract, to  as  close  confinement  as  a  convict  in  a  peniten- 
tiary; he  knows  that  he  is  in  danger  of  being  shot  by  the 

243 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

guards  if  he  attempts  to  escape;  he  is  prepared  to  be 
searched  daily  with  the  same  minuteness  which  customs 
inspectors  display  in  the  case  of  a  known  smuggler;  and 
when  his  contract  expires  he  has  still  to  put  up  with  a 
fortnight's  solitary  confinement,  in  which  emetics  and 
cathartics  play  an  unpleasant  part.  The  mine  com- 
pounds are  huge  enclosures,  unroofed  but  covered  with 
a  wire  netting  to  prevent  anything  being  thrown  out 
over  the  walls.  Around  the  interior  of  the  wall  are  rows 
of  corrugated-iron  huts,  in  which  the  natives  live  and 
sleep  when  they  are  not  at  work,  while  the  open  space 
in  the  middle  is  used  for  cooking,  for  washing,  and  for 
native  games.  The  compounds  are  surrounded  by  three 
lines  of  barbed- wire  fence  which  are  constantly  patrolled 
by  armed  sentries  and  illuminated  at  night  by  power- 
ful search-lights;  every  entrance  is  as  jealously  guarded 
as  that  of  a  German  fortress;  and  visitors  are  never  ad- 
mitted unless  they  bear  a  pass  signed  by  the  administra- 
tion and  are  accompanied  by  a  responsible  official  of  the 
mine.  Although  the  government — which,  as  I  have 
already  remarked,  takes  sixty  per  cent  of  the  mine's 
earnings — has  made  I.  D.  B.  (illicit  diamond-buying) 
a  penal  offence  with  a  uniform  punishment  of  twenty 
years  at  hard  labour,  and  though  the  mining  companies 
maintain  espionage  systems  which  rival  those  of  many 
Continental  governments,  no  employee,  from  director 
down  to  day  labourer,  ever  being  free  from  scrutiny, 
millions  of  dollars'  worth  of  diamonds  are  smuggled  out 
of  the  mines  each  year.  To  encourage  honesty,  ten 
per  cent  of  the  value  of  any  stone  which  a  workman 

244 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

may  find  is  given  to  him  if  he  brings  it  himself  to  the 
overseer,  well  over  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars  being 
paid  out  annually  on  stones  thus  found. 

The  compound  of  the  Premier  Mine  contained,  at 
the  time  of  my  visit,  something  over  twelve  thousand 
natives,  representing  nearly  every  tribe  from  Pondo- 
land  to  the  head-waters  of  the  Congo.  Here  one  sees 
Zulus,  Fingos,  Pondos,  Basutos,  Bechuanas,  Matabele, 
Mashonas,  Makalaka,  and  even  Bushmen  from  the 
Kalahari  country  and  Masai  from  German  East  Africa, 
all  attracted  by  the  high  wages,  which  range  from  five 
to  eight  dollars  a  week.  When  the  native's  six-month 
contract  has  ended,  he  takes  his  wages  in  British  sover- 
eigns— and  his  earnings  accumulate  quickly  because  he 
can  live  on  very  little — goes  home  to  his  own  tribe,  per- 
haps six  weeks'  journey  away,  buys  a  wife  and  a  yoke  of 
oxen,  and  lives  lazily  ever  after.  Not  all  of  the  natives 
are  of  so  thrifty  a  turn  of  mind,  however,  for  the  com- 
pany store  holds  many  attractions  for  them  and  they 
are  heavy  purchasers  of  camel's-hair  blankets,  French 
perfumes,  and  imported  cutlery,  refusing  almost  inva- 
riably to  take  anything  but  the  best. 

I  have  tried  to  paint  for  you  a  comprehensive, 
though  necessarily  an  impressionistic,  picture  of  this 
great  new  nation  that  has  sprung  up  so  quickly  in  the 
antipodes,  and  to  give  you  at  least  a  rough  idea  of 
what  its  people,  its  soil,  its  towns,  its  climate,  its  re- 
sources, and  its  problems  are  like.  That  South  Africa 
will  always  be  a  country  of  great  mineral  wealth  there 
is  little  doubt,  for,  when  the  supplies  of  gold  and 

245 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

diamonds  are  exhausted,  copper,  iron,  and  coal  should 
still  furnish  good  returns.  Likewise,  it  will  always  be 
a  great  ranching  country,  for  nearly  all  of  its  vast 
veldt  is  ideal,  both  in  climate  and  pasturage,  for  live- 
stock. It  will  probably  never  become  a  manufactur- 
ing country,  for  coal  is  of  poor  quality,  there  is  neither 
water  power  nor  inland  waterways,  and  labour  is  neither 
good  nor  cheap.  If,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  gov- 
ernment irrigation  can  be  introduced  as  successfully  as 
it  has  been  in  our  own  Southwest,  and  if  the  malaria 
which  makes  the  rich  coast-lands  almost  uninhabitable 
can  be  exterminated  as  effectually  as  we  have  exter- 
minated it  on  the  Isthmus  of  Panama,  I  can  see  no  rea- 
son why  South  Africa  should  not  eventually  become 
one  of  the  great  agricultural  countries  of  the  world. 
Though  many  South  Africans  look  forward  to  a  day 
when  the  natives  will  begin  to  retire  to  the  country 
north  of  the  Zambezi,  and  when  a  large  European  popu- 
lation will  till  their  own  farms,  by  their  own  labour,  with 
the  aid  of  government-assisted  irrigation,  I  am  person- 
ally of  the  opinion  that  South  Africa  will  never  become 
at  all  evenly  populated,  but  that  it  will  always  bear  a 
marked  resemblance  to  our  Southwest,  with  large  areas 
devoted  to  the  raising  of  sheep  and  cattle,  with  certain 
other  areas  irrigated  for  the  raising  of  fruit,  and  with  its 
population  centred  for  the  most  part  in  towns  scattered 
at  long  distances  from  one  another,  but  connected  by 
rapid  railway  communications. 

Everything  considered,  South  Africa  is  a  country  of 
big  things — big  pay,  big  prices,  big  opportunities,  big 

246 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BIG  THINGS 

obstacles,  big  resources,  big  rewards — and  she  needs 
young  men  to  help  her  fight  her  battles  and  solve  her 
problems.  So,  if  I  were  a  youngster,  with  the  sheep- 
skin of  a  technical  or  agricultural  school  in  my  pocket, 
a  few  hundred  dollars  in  my  purse,  and  a  longing  for 
fortune  and  adventure  in  my  heart,  I  think  that  I 
should  walk  into  one  of  those  steam-ship  offices  in 
Bowling  Green  and  book  a  passage  for  that  land  of 
which  some  one  has  said,  "Fortune  knocks  at  a  man's 
door  once  in  most  countries,  but  in  South  Africa  she 
knocks  twice." 


94f 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

THERE  can  be  no  doubt  about  it:  real  cannibal 
kings  are  getting  scarce.  Ever  since,  as  a  young- 
ster, I  read  of  Du  Chaillu's  adventures  among  the  man- 
eating  natives  of  Equatoria,  I  had  hankered  to  see  a  real 
live  cannibal  in  the  flesh.  But  when,  in  later  years,  I 
made  inquiries  about  them  from  missionaries  and  tra- 
ders and  officials  in  Senegal  and  Uganda  and  Nyasa- 
land,  I  invariably  received  the  reply:  "Oh,  that's  all 
over  now;  except  among  a  few  of  the  West  Coast  tribes, 
cannibalism  is  a  thing  of  the  past. "  So  when  the  cap- 
tain of  the  little  German  cargo  boat  on  which  I  was 
loitering  up  and  down  Africa's  Indian  seaboard  re- 
marked at  breakfast  one  morning  that  he  had  decided 
to  put  in  to  Mahe,  in  the  Seychelle  group,  and  that  I 
might  care  to  pass  the  time  while  he  was  taking  on  cargo 
by  visiting  the  colony  of  cannibal  royalties  who  were  in 
exile  there,  I  felt  that  one  of  my  boyhood  dreams  was  to 
be  realised  at  last. 

Do  you  happen,  by  any  chance,  to  have  been  to 
Mahe,  in  the  Seychelles?  No?  Of  course  not.  Then 
you  must  picture  an  emerald  island  dropped  down  in 
a  turquoise  sea.  Peacock-coloured  waves  ripple  on  a 
silver  strand,  and  this  loses  itself  almost  immediately 
in  a  dense  forest  of  giant  palms,  which,  mounting  lei- 

2uS 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

surely,  dwindles  and  straggles  and  runs  out  in  a  peak  of 
bare  blue  rock,  which  disappears,  in  turn,  behind  a  great, 
low-hanging,  purple  heat  cloud.  To  reach  these  delect- 
able isles  one  must  have  time  and  patience  a-plenty,  for 
they  lie  far  from  the  ocean  highways  and  are  visited  by 
scarcely  a  dozen  vessels,  all  told,  each  year.  Draw  a 
line  straight  across  the  Indian  Ocean  from  Colombo  to 
Zanzibar,  and  where  that  line  intersects  the  equator 
are  the  Seychelles,  mere  specks  in  that  expanse  of 
ocean.  Mahe,  the  largest  of  the  group,  is  everything 
that  a  tropical  island  should  be,  according  to  the  story- 
books, even  to  its  inaccessibility,  for,  barring  the  French 
mail  steamer  which  touches  there  every  other  month 
on  its  way  to  Madagascar,  and  an  occasional  German 
freighter  or  British  tramp  which  drops  in  on  its  way 
from  Goa  to  Kilindini,  on  the  chance  of  picking  up  a 
cargo  of  copra,  it  is  as  completely  cut  off  from  the  out- 
side world  as  though  it  were  in  Mars. 

I  rather  imagine  that  they  are  the  loneliest  peo- 
ple in  the  world,  those  score  of  men  and  women — 
English,  French,  and  German — who  constitute  the 
entire  white  population  of  the  islands.  That  is  why 
they  are  so  pathetically  eager  to  welcome  the  rare  visi- 
tors who  come  their  way.  Indeed,  until  I  went  to  Mahe 
I  never  knew  what  hospitality  really  meant.  When  our 
anchor  rumbled  down  under  the  shadow  of  the  Morne 
Seychellois,  and  the  police  boat — its  crew  of  negroes, 
with  their  flashing  teeth  and  big,  good-humoured  faces, 
their  trim,  blue  sailor  suits  and  broad-brimmed  straw 
wide-awakes,    looking  like  overgrown    children — had 

249 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

taken  me  ashore,  I  promptly  found  myself  surrounded 
by  the  entire  European  population. 

"I  am  the  wife  of  the  legal  adviser  to  the  Crown," 
said  a  sweet-faced  little  Irishwoman.  "My  husband 
and  I  would  be  so  pleased  if  you  would  come  up  to  our 
bungalow  for  dinner.  You  can  have  no  idea  how  good 
it  seems  to  see  a  white  face  again." 

"Oh,  I  say,  then  you  must  promise  to  breakfast 
with  me,"  urged  a  tall  young  Englishman  in  immacu- 
late white  linen,  who,  it  proved,  was  the  superior  judge 
of  the  colony.  "You  won't  disappoint  me,  will  you, 
old  chap?  I'm  dying  to  hear  what's  going  on  in  the 
world.  And  if  you  should  have  any  magazines  or  news- 
papers that  you  could  spare " 

But  the  government  chaplain,  wasting  no  time  in 
words,  fairly  hustled  me  into  a  diminutive  dog-cart  and, 
amid  the  reproaches  of  his  fellow-exiles,  off  we  rattled 
behind  the  only  horse  on  the  island.  The  padre  was 
not  to  monopolise  me  for  long,  however,  for  the  little 
group  of  homesick  exiles  pursued  us  to  his  bungalow, 
where  they  settled  me  in  a  long  cane  chair,  thrust 
upon  me  cheroots  and  whiskey-and-sodas,  and  listened 
breathlessly  to  the  bits  of  world  gossip  for  which  I 
ransacked  the  pigeon-holes  of  my  memory  for  their 
benefit.  The  newest  songs,  the  most  recent  plays,  the 
latest  fashions,  all  the  gossip  of  Broadway  and  Oxford 
Street  and  the  Avenue  de  l'Opera — they  hung  on  my 
words  with  an  eagerness  that  was  pathetic. 

"I  hope  you'll  pardon  us,"  apologised  my  host, 

"but  it's  so  seldom  that  we  see  a  pukka  white  man  out 

250 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

here  that  we  quite  forget  the  few  manners  we  have  left 
in  our  eagerness  to  learn  what  is  going  on  at  home — the 
little  things,  you  know,  that  are  not  important  enough 
to  put  in  the  cables  and  that  they  never  think  to  put  in 
the  letters.  Until  you  have  lived  in  such  a  place  as  this, 
my  friend,  you  don't  know  the  meaning  of  that  word 
1  home."' 

It  is  hot  in  the  Seychelles;  hot  with  a  damp,  sticky, 
humid,  enervating  heat  which  is  unknown  away  from 
the  Line.  They  tell  a  story  in  Mahe  of  an  English  resi- 
dent who  died  from  fever  and  went  to  the  lower  regions. 
A  few  days  later  his  friends  received  a  message  from  the 
departed.  It  said,  "Please  send  down  my  blankets." 
There  are  days  in  an  American  midsummer  when  in- 
doors becomes  oppressive;  it  is  always  oppressive  in  the 
Seychelles,  in  January  as  in  August,  at  midnight  as  at 
noon.  During  the  "hot  season"  it  is  overpoweringly 
so,  for  you  live  for  six  months  at  a  stretch  in  a  bath  of 
perspiration  and  wonder  whether  you  will  ever  know 
what  it  is  to  be  cool  again.  "There  are  six  hundred  min- 
utes in  every  hour  of  the  hot  weather,"  the  governor's 
wife  remarked  to  me,  "and  not  one  of  them  bearable. 
Although,"  she  added,  "after  the  mercury  in  your  bed- 
room thermometer  has  climbed  above  one  hundred  and 
thirty,  a  few  more  degrees  don't  much  matter."  In 
her  bungalow,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  the 
white  woman  in  the  Seychelles  is  as  much  a  prisoner  by 
reason  of  the  heat  as  is  a  Turkish  woman  in  a  harem 
from  custom.  Having  neither  shopping,  domestic  duties, 
nor  callers  to  occupy  her,  the  only  break  in  the  day's 

251 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

terrible  monotony  comes  at  sunset,  when  every  one 
meets  every  one  else  at  the  little  club  on  the  water-front 
which,  with  its  breeze-swept  verandas  and  its  green  cro- 
quet lawns  and  tennis  courts,  is  the  universal  gathering- 
place  between  the  hours  of  six  and  eight.  An  afternoon 
nap  is  universal — if  the  flies  will  allow  it.  Flies  by  day 
and  mosquitos  by  night  are  as  wearing  on  European 
nerves  as  the  climate,  the  beds  being  from  necessity  so 
smothered  in  mosquito  netting  that  the  air  that  gets 
within  is  as  unsatisfactory  as  strained  milk.  In  the  hot 
weather  a  punkah  is  kept  going  all  night — this  huge, 
swinging  fan,  pulled  by  a  coolie  who  squats  in  the  ve- 
randa outside,  and  who  can  go  to  sleep  without  ceasing 
his  pulling,  being  as  necessary  for  comfort  as  a  pillow — 
while,  during  the  hottest  nights,  it  is  customary  to  sleep 
unclad  and  uncovered,  save  for  a  sheet,  which  the 
punkah-coolie,  slipping  in  every  hour,  sprinkles  with 
water. 

The  white  woman  in  this  part  of  the  world  is  an 
early  riser.  A  cup  of  tea  is  always  served  her  when  she 
is  awakened,  and  as  soon  as  she  is  dressed  comes  chota 
hazri,  or  the  little  breakfast,  consisting  of  tea,  toast, 
eggs,  and  fruit.  The  most  is  made  of  the  cool  hours  of 
the  morning,  for  in  the  hot  weather  it  is  customary  to 
"shut  up  the  bungalow"  at  about  seven  a.  m.,  when 
the  temperature  is  moderately  low  compared  with 
what  it  will  rise  to  a  few  hours  later.  Every  door  and 
window  is  closed  and  thereafter  the  greatest  care  is 
taken  to  make  entrances  and  exits  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, for  a  door  left  open  for  any  length  of  time  quickly 

252 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

raises  the  temperature.  If  kept  carefully  closed,  how- 
ever, it  is  remarkable  how  cool  the  room  keeps  as  com- 
pared with  the  stifling  heat  without. 

Though  a  Seychellian  bungalow  is  generally  barn- 
like without  and  barren  within,  its  European  mistress 
usually  contrives  to  make  its  rooms  pretty  and  invit- 
ing, it  being  astonishing  what  marvels  of  transformation 
can  be  accomplished  by  means  of  native  mattings,  In- 
dian printed  curtains,  and  furniture  of  Chinese  wicker, 
all  effective  and  ridiculously  cheap.  The  kitchen  is  a  de- 
tached building,  erected  as  far  away  from  the  bungalow 
as  possible,  and  the  white  woman  who  knows  when  she 
is  well  off  seldom  enters  it.  Once  a  month,  however, 
she  inspects  her  cooking  pots  and  pans,  because,  be- 
ing made  of  copper,  they  have  to  be  periodically  tinned 
or  they  become  poisonous,  almost  as  many  lives  being 
lost  in  the  tropics  by  the  neglect  of  this  simple  precau- 
tion as  by  failure  to  have  every  drop  of  drinking  water 
boiled.  As  there  is  no  ice-making  plant  in  the  Sey- 
chelles, water  is  cooled  for  drinking  by  being  placed  in 
a  porous  earthenware  vessel  and  swung  to  and  fro  in 
the  heated  atmosphere  until,  though  still  far  from  cool, 
it  is  a  little  less  tepid  and  nauseous. 

But  the  European  residents  are  not  the  only  exiles 
in  the  Seychelles,  nor,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  the  ones 
most  to  be  pitied,  for  of  recent  years  these  islands,  pre- 
sumably because  of  their  very  remoteness,  have  been 
turned  into  a  political  prison  for  those  deposed  cannibal 
kings  whose  kingdoms  have,  on  one  excuse  and  another, 
been  added  to  the  dominions  of  the  British  Crown. 

253 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

At  present  there  are  three  political  prisoners  of  note  on 
the  island  of  Mahe — King  Kabanga  of  Uganda,  King 
Assibi  of  the  Gold  Coast,  and  King  Prempeh  of  Ashan- 
tee.  Though  all  of  these  ebony  royalties  were  enthu- 
siastic patrons  of  the  cooking-pot,  King  Prempeh  is  by 
far  the  most  notorious  and  the  most  interesting  person- 
ality of  the  three,  for  it  was  his  palace  at  Kumasi  that 
was  built  of  the  skulls  and  surrounded  by  a  neat  picket 
fence  made  from  the  leg  and  arm  bones  of  the  people  he 
and  his  tribesmen  had  eaten.  Hard  by  the  palace  was 
the  ghastly  "crucifixion  grove"  where  the  victims  were 
slaughtered  and  their  bodies  hung  until  sufficiently 
gamy  to  suit  the  royal  palate.  Owing  to  an  error  of 
judgment  in  selecting  a  British  commissioner  as  the 
piece  de  resistance  for  one  of  his  feasts,  an  expedition  was 
sent  to  Ashantee,  the  country  annexed  to  the  British 
empire,  and  its  ruler  forced  to  exchange  his  skull-walled 
palace  in  Kumasi  for  a  four-roomed,  tin-roofed  cottage 
in  the  outskirts  of  Victoria,  the  capital  of  the  Seychelles, 
where,  surrounded  by  the  huts  of  the  chieftains  who  ac- 
companied him  into  exile,  he  fives  on  the  meagre  pension 
granted  him  by  the  British  Government. 

Clad  in  the  flaming  cotton  robe  of  red  and  yellow 
which  is  the  West  African  equivalent  of  royal  ermine, 
worn  over  a  pair  of  very  soiled  pajamas,  his  Majesty 
received  me  on  the  veranda  of  his  little  dwelling  in  the 
presence  of  the  constable  who  guards  him  and  who  acts 
as  interpreter 'when  the  King's  scanty  store  of  English 
gives  out.  Now  I  am  not  an  entire  stranger  to  the  ways 
of  the  Lord's  Anointed,  but  this  audience  with  Prempeh 

254 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

of  Ashantee  was  one  of  the  most  memorable  experiences 
that  I  can  recall.  In  the  first  place,  the  mercury  had 
crept  up  and  up  and  up  until  it  hovered  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  one  hundred  and  thirty  degrees  in  the  shade 
of  the  house;  in  the  second  place,  the  sons  of  the  King 
(he  told  me  that  he  had  forty-two  in  all)  had  crowded 
into  the  tiny  room  until  the  place  fairly  reeked  with  the 
smell  of  perspiration;  in  the  third  place,  I  was  at  a  loss 
what  to  talk  to  his  Majesty  about.  The  questions 
which  one  would  like  to  ask  a  cannibal  king  are  obvious 
— whether  he  takes  his  meat  rare  or  well  done,  whether 
he  prefers  the  tenderloin  or  the  sirloin,  whether  he  likes 
white  meat  better  than  black — but  Prempeh  of  Ashan- 
tee is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  with  whom  one  would 
feel  inclined  to  take  liberties,  and  I  was  very  far  from 
being  sure  whether  he  would  consider  such  questions  as 
liberties  or  not.  After  an  awkward  pause,  during  which 
the  King  shuffled  his  feet  uneasily  and  I  wiped  away 
rivulets  of  perspiration,  he  said  something  in  Ashantee 
— at  least  I  suppose  it  was  Ashantee — to  one  of  his  at- 
tendants, who  shortly  returned  with  a  tin  tray  holding 
a  bottle  of  whiskey,  a  siphon  of  lukewarm  seltzer,  and 
a  couple  of  very  dirty  glasses.  After  another  long  and 
uncomfortable  pause,  the  King  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't 
have  something  to  drink.  Taking  it  for  granted  that 
Prempeh's  capacity  for  drink  would  be  as  outre  as  his 
choice  of  food,  I  poured  his  beer  glass  full  to  the  brim 
with  whiskey,  giving  to  myself  the  drink  sanctioned  by 
civilised  custom. 

"In  my  country,"  said  the  King,  leaning  forward 
255 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

and  speaking  in  the  broken  English  which  he  had  ac- 
quired from  the  government  chaplain,  "bad  men  some- 
times try  to  poison  king,  so  king  turn  drinks  other  way 
round,"  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the  words,  he  turned 
the  tray  so  as  to  place  before  me  the  beer-glassful  of 
whiskey.  I  have  never  been  quite  certain  whether  there 
was  a  twinkle  in  the  eye  of  that  simple-hearted  cannibal 
when  he  literally  turned  the  table  on  me  or  not. 

At  the  time  of  my  visit  to  Prempeh  he  was  in  the 
throes  of  marital  unhappiness,  the  details  of  which  he 
confided  to  me.  It  seems  that  for  several  years  past  he 
had  been  endeavouring  to  gain  admission  to  the  Church- 
of -England  fold,  arguing,  plausibly  enough,  that  such  a 
proof  of  his  complete  regeneration  might  result  in  induc- 
ing the  British  Government  to  send  him  back  to  his 
home  in  Ashantee.  Working  on  that  assumption,  he 
had,  not  long  before,  asked  the  government  chaplain  to 
confirm  him,  to  which  request  that  gratified  but  still 
somewhat  sceptical  clergyman  had  replied:  "I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  what  your  Majesty  asks  is  at  present  im- 
possible, as  your  Majesty's  marital  affairs  are  not  pleas- 
ing to  the  church." 

So  Prempeh,  who  had  brought  only  twelve  of  his 
wives  with  him  into  exile,  thinking  that  the  church  held 
such  a  number  to  be  incompatible  with  his  dignity, — for 
the  workings  of  the  West  African  mind  are  peculiar,  re- 
member,— sent  a  message  to  the  governor  of  the  Sey- 
chelles asking  permission  to  take  a  maiden  of  Mahe  for 
his  thirteenth  spouse,  and  it  was  not  until  the  indignant 
chaplain  remonstrated  with  him  for  his  fall  from  grace 

256 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

that  he  grasped  the  fact  that  Christianity  demands 
of  its  converts  the  minimum  instead  of  the  maximum 
number  of  wives. 

"So  me  ship  three  wives  back  Africa,"  Prempeh 
explained  to  me  in  his  quaint  West  Coast  English. 
"Now  me  have  only  nine.  Nine  wives  not  many  for 
great  king.  But  if  chappy  [chaplain]  not  let  me  in 
church  with  nine  wives,  then  me  ship  them  back  Africa 
too,  for  me  very  much  homesick  to  see  Ashantee." 

Poor,  deposed,  exiled,  homesick  king,  he  will  never 
again  see  that  African  home  for  which  he  longs,  I  fear, 
for  he  cost  England  far  too  much  in  lives  and  money. 
He  came  out  on  the  veranda  of  his  little  house  to  say 
good-by,  and  as  I  looked  back,  as  my  'rickshaw  boy 
drew  me  swiftly  down  the  road,  he  was  still  standing 
there  waving  to  me — a  real,  dyed-in-the-wool  cannibal 
king,  who  has  killed  and  eaten  more  human  beings,  I 
suppose,  than  almost  any  man  that  ever  lived. 

Two  days'  steam  southward  from  the  Seychelles, 
and  midway  between  the  island  of  Mahe  and  Diego- 
Suarez,  on  the  north  coast  of  Madagascar,  lies  the  islet 
of  Saint  Pierre,  whence  comes  much  of  the  guano  with 
which  we  fertilise  our  flower-beds  and  gardens,  and  those 
giant  sea-turtles  whose  shells  supply  our  women-folk 
with  fans,  combs,  and  brooches.  Here,  on  this  half 
a  square  mile  of  sun-baked  rock  in  the  middle  of  the 
Indian  Ocean,  the  Scotch  manager  of  the  syndicate 
which  works  the  guano  deposits  lives  the  whole  year 
round,  during  half  of  which  time  he  sees  no  human  face, 

257 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

during  the  other  half  having  the  company  of  a  few 
score  blacks  who  are  brought  over  from  Mahe  under 
contract  to  gather  the  rich  deposits  of  guano.  His  only 
shelter  a  wooden  shack,  his  only  companions  the  clouds 
of  clamorous  sea-fowl,  his  only  fresh  food  turtles  and 
fish,  his  only  communication  with  the  world  two  times 
a  year  when  the  workers  come  and  go,  I  expected  to  find 
him  unshaven  and  slovenly,  the  most  exiled  of  all  exiles, 
the  loneliest  of  the  lonely.  I  made  up  a  bundle  of  two- 
months-old  newspapers  and  pictured  the  pleasure  it 
would  give  him  to  learn  the  news  of  that  big,  busy, 
teeming  world  which  lay  over  there  beyond  the  rim  of 
the  Indian  Ocean.  I  imagined  that  he  would  cling  to 
my  arm  and  beg  piteously  for  news  from  home,  and  I 
thought  it  quite  possible  that  he  might  weep  on  my 
shoulder.  But  when  a  crew  of  blacks  had  taken  me 
through  the  booming  surf  in  a  tiny  native  dugout,  and  I 
and  my  bundle  of  newspapers  had  been  hauled  up  an 
overhanging  cliff  at  the  end  of  a  rope,  I  found  the  poor 
exile  whose  lonely  lot  I  had  come  to  cheer  immaculate 
in  white  linen  and  pipe-clayed  shoes  and  wholly  con- 
tented with  the  shade  of  a  green  palm,  the  murmur  of 
a  turquoise  sea,  a  book  of  Robert  Burns 's  verses,  and 
the  contents  of  a  large  black  bottle. 

When  De  Lesseps,  that  lean  Frenchman  with  the 
vision  of  a  prophet  and  the  energy  of  a  Parisian,  drove 
his  spade  through  the  sands  of  Suez  and  thereby  short- 
ened the  sea-road  from  Europe  to  the  East  by  five  thou- 
sand miles,  he  gave  France  her  revenge  on  Saint  Helena. 

258 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

Ever  since  Clive  won  England  her  Indian  empire,  this 
obscure  rock  in  the  South  Atlantic  had  been  a  prosper- 
ous half-way  house  on  the  road  to  the  Farther  East,  its 
lonely  islanders  driving  a  roaring  trade  with  the  winged 
fleets  of  war  and  commerce  that  stopped  there  long 
enough  to  replenish  their  larders  and  refill  their  casks. 
But  when  the  completion  of  the  Canal  altered  the  trade 
routes  of  the  world,  the  tedious  Cape  journey  was  aban- 
doned, the  South  Atlantic  was  deserted,  and  Saint 
Helena  was  ruined.  By  the  genius  of  one  of  her  sons, 
France  had  settled  her  score  with  that  grim  island, 
whose  name  still  leaves  a  bitter  taste  in  the  mouths  of 
Frenchmen. 

He  who  would  see  the  prison  place  of  the  great 
Emperor  for  himself  must  be  rich  in  time  and  patience, 
for  the  vessels  that  earn  their  government  subsidy  by 
grudgingly  dropping  anchor  for  a  few  hours  in  James- 
town's open  roadstead  are  only  indifferently  good  and 
very  far  between.  Scarcely  larger  than  the  island  of 
Nantucket — or  Staten  Island,  if  that  conveys  more 
meaning;  almost  midway  between  the  fever-haunted 
coasts  of  Angola  and  Brazil;  sixteen  days'  steam  from 
Southampton  Water  and  seven  from  Table  Bay;  its 
rockbound  coasts  as  precipitous  and  forbidding  as  the 
walls  of  the  Grand  Canyon;  and  with  a  population  less 
than  that  of  many  of  New  York's  down-town  office 
buildings,  Saint  Helena  possesses  one  attraction,  never- 
theless, which  more  than  repaid  me  for  the  long  and 
arduous  journey.  That  attraction  is  a  mean  and  lonely 
cottage,  set  on  a  bleak  and  barren  hill.    To  stand  within 

259 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

the  walls  of  that  wretched  dwelling  and  to  stare  out 
across  the  wastes  of  ocean  from  that  wind-swept  hill- 
top, I  travelled  twenty  thousand  miles,  for  on  that 
distant  stage  was  played  the  last  act  of  the  mightiest 
tragedy  of  modern  times. 

Loitering  up  and  down  the  seven  seas,  I  have  seen 
many  islands,  but  none,  that  I  can  recall,  that  turns 
toward  the  seafarer  a  face  at  once  so  gloomy  and  so  for- 
bidding. It  needs  no  vivid  imagination,  no  knowledge 
of  its  history,  to  transform  the  perpendicular  cliffs  of 
Saint  Helena  into  the  grim  walls  of  a  sea-surrounded 
prison.  It  is  a  place  so  stern,  so  solemn,  and  so  awesome 
that  it  makes  you  shiver  in  spite  of  yourself.  As  I 
leaned  over  the  rail  of  a  Castle  steamer,  with  sunrise 
still  an  hour  away  and  the  Cross  flaming  overhead,  and 
watched  the  island's  threatening  profile  loom  up  out  of 
the  night,  I  shuddered  in  sympathy  with  that  stern, 
cold  man  who  came  as  a  prisoner  to  these  same  shores 
close  on  a  century  ago. 

From  the  view-points  of  safety  and  severity,  the 
captors  of  the  fallen  Emperor  could  not  have  chosen 
better.  For  the  safe-keeping  of  a  man  whose  ambitions 
had  decimated,  bankrupted,  and  exhausted  the  people 
of  a  continent,  it  was  imperative  that  a  prison  should  be 
found  whence  escape  or  rescue  would  be  out  of  the  ques- 
tion by  reason  of  its  very  isolation  and  remoteness. 
Twelve  hundred  miles  from  the  nearest  continental 
land,  and  that  a  savage  and  fever-infested  wilderness; 
with  but  a  single  harbour,  and  that  so  poor  that  landing 
there  is  perilous  except  in  the  very  best  of  weather;  its 

260 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

great  natural  strength  increased  by  impregnable  forts; 
its  towering  rocks  commanding  a  sea  view  of  sixty  miles 
in  every  direction,  thus  obviating  the  possibility  of  a 
surprise  attack,  Saint  Helena  admirably  fulfilled  the 
requirements  for  a  prison  demanded  by  a  harassed, 
weakened,  and  frightened  Europe. 

Though  those  travellers  who  take  passage  by  the 
slow  and  infrequent  "intermediate"  steamers  to  the 
Cape  are  usually  afforded  an  opportunity  of  setting  foot 
on  Saint  Helena's  soil,  the  brief  stay  which  is  made  there 
permits  of  their  doing  little  else.  As  the  house  occupied 
by  Napoleon  stands  in  the  very  heart  of  the  island  and 
on  its  highest  point,  and  as  the  road  which  leads  to  it  is 
so  rough  and  precipitous  that  those  who  hire  one  of  the 
few  available  vehicles  generally  walk  most  of  the  way 
out  of  pity  for  the  horses,  there  is  rarely  time  for  the 
traveller  who  intends  proceeding  by  the  same  boat  to 
set  eyes  on  the  spot  which  gives  the  island  its  fame. 
I  heard,  indeed,  of  scores  of  travellers  who  had  chosen 
the  discomforts  of  this  roundabout  and  tedious  route 
for  the  express  purpose  of  visiting  the  house  where 
Napoleon  died,  and  who  found,  on  arriving  at  Saint 
Helena,  that  they  would  have  time  for  nothing  more 
than  a  hurried  promenade  in  the  town.  Nor  are  any 
efforts  made  by  the  indolent  islanders  to  induce  travel- 
lers to  stay  over  a  steamer,  for  there  are  neither  hotels 
nor  boarding-houses,  and  a  visitor  would  have  to  depend 
for  his  bed  and  board  on  the  hospitality  of  some  private 
family. 

The  South  Atlantic,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling 
261 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

lazily  under  the  languorous  influence  of  the  tropic  morn- 
ing, had  exchanged  her  sombre  night  robe  for  a  shimmer- 
ing, sparkling  garment  of  sun-flecked  blue  before  the 
sleepy-eyed  quarantine  officer  had  laboriously  climbed 
the  port  ladder;  and  the  yellow  flag  at  our  masthead, 
fluttering  down,  had  signalled  to  the  clamorous  crews 
of  negroes  waiting  eagerly  alongside  that  they  could  take 
us  ashore.  In  the  pitiless  light  of  the  early  morning 
the  island  looked  even  more  forbidding  than  when  the 
harshness  of  its  features  was  veiled  by  night.  Naked 
slope  and  ridge  rose  everywhere,  and  everywhere  they 
were  cut  and  cross-cut  by  equally  bare  valleys  and 
ravines,  but  not  a  house,  not  a  tree,  not  a  sign  of  life, 
vegetable  or  animal,  could  we  detect  as  we  drew  near. 
Even  the  sea-birds  seemed  afraid  to  alight  on  those  grim 
cliffs,  darting  in  on  outspread  wings  as  though  to  settle 
on  them,  only  to  wheel  away  with  frightened,  discordant 
cries,  the  while  an  everlasting  surf  hurled  itself  angrily 
against  the  smooth  black  rocks,  voicing  its  impotence 
in  a  sullen,  booming  roar. 

Approaching  the  shore,  we  were  amazed  to  see  that 
what  had  appeared  from  the  ship's  deck  to  be  a  solid, 
perpendicular  wall  of  rock  was  split  in  the  middle,  as 
though  by  a  mighty  chisel,  and  in  the  cleft  thus  formed 
nestled  Jamestown,  the  island's  capital,  flanked  on 
either  side  by  towering,  fort-crowned  cliffs  which  effec- 
tually conceal  it  from  the  sea.  Landing  at  the  same 
stone  water-stairs  where  the  captive  Emperor  had  come 
ashore  nearly  a  century  before,  we  followed  a  stone- 
paved  causeway,  bordered  on  the  land  side  by  a  deep 

262 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

but  empty  moat,  over  a  creaking  drawbridge,  through 
an  ancient  portcullised  gateway,  and  so  into  a  spacious 
square,  shaded  by  many  patriarchal  trees  and  dotted 
here  and  there  with  groups  of  antiquated  cannon.  Bor- 
dering the  square  are  the  post-office,  which  does  a  thriv- 
ing business  in  the  sale  of  the  rare  surcharged  stamps  of 
the  islands  when  the  steamers  come  in;  the  custom- 
house, the  law  courts,  the  yellow  church  of  Saint  James, 
and  the  castle,  a  picturesque  and  straggling  structure, 
begun  by  the  first  English  governor  in  1659,  which  is 
used  by  the  governor  for  his  "town"  residence,  though 
his  "country"  place  is  barely  a  mile  away.  The  town 
itself  is  simply  a  mean  and  straggling  street,  lined  on 
either  side  by  whitewashed,  red-roofed,  green-shuttered 
houses  which  become  less  and  less  pretentious  and  more 
and  more  scattered  as  you  make  your  way  up  the  ever 
narrowing  valley  until  it  loses  itself  in  the  hills.  If 
there  is  a  more  dead-and-alive  place  than  Jamestown 
I  have  yet  to  see  it.  A  New  Hampshire  hamlet  on  a 
Sunday  morning  is  positively  boisterous  in  comparison. 
Once  a  month,  however,  when  the  British  mail  comes  in, 
the  town  arouses  itself  long  enough  to  go  down  to  the 
post-office  and  get  the  letters  and  the  papers — espe- 
cially the  illustrated  weeklies — from  that  far-off  place 
which  every  islander,  even  though  he  was  born  and 
raised  on  Saint  Helena,  refers  to  as  "home." 

From  the  very  edge  of  the  village  square  the  cliff 
known  as  Ladder  Hill  rises  sheer,  its  great  bulk  throw- 
ing an  ominous  shadow  over  the  little  town.  It  takes 
its  name  from  the  Jacob's  ladder  whose  seven  hundred 

263 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

wooden  steps  will  bring  you,  panting  and  perspiring, 
to  the  fort  and  the  wireless  station  which  occupy  the 
top.  I  suppose  there  is  no  other  such  ladder  in  the 
world,  it  being,  so  I  was  proudly  assured  by  the 
islanders,  nine  hundred  and  ninety-three  feet  long  and 
six  hundred  and  two  feet  high.  Nor  can  I  conceive  of 
any  other  place  wanting  such  an  accommodation,  for 
those  who  use  it  are  constantly  in  danger  of  bursting 
their  lungs  going  up  or  of  breaking  their  necks  coming 
down. 

A  biscuit's  throw  from  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and 
facing  the  public  gardens,  stands  the  sedate,  old-fash- 
ioned house  where  Napoleon  spent  the  first  few  nights 
after  his  arrival  on  the  island.  It  is  a  prim,  two-story 
residence,  the  sombreness  of  its  snuff-coloured  plaster 
relieved  by  white  stone  trimmings  and  window-sills — 
just  such  a  place,  in  fact,  as  the  British  colonists  built 
by  the  hundreds  in  our  own  New  England  towns.  By 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  coincidences  of  which  I 
have  ever  heard,  Napoleon  was  given  the  same  bedroom 
which  had  been  occupied  by  the  Duke  of  Wellington — 
then  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley — on  his  homeward  voyage 
from  India  only  a  few  years  before. 

Leaving  Jamestown  in  its  gloomy,  rock-walled  ra- 
vine, we  followed  the  incredibly  rough  high-road  which 
bumps  and  jolts  and  twists  and  turns  and  climbs  back 
and  up  onto  the  table-land  which  forms,  as  it  were,  the 
roof  of  the  island.  The  deeper  we  penetrated  into  the 
interior  the  more  luxuriant  the  vegetation  became.  The 
dry,  barren,  soilless,  lichen-coated  rocks  of  the  coast 

264 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

zone  gave  way  to  grassy  valleys  abloom  with  English 
gorse  and  broom  and  dotted  with  the  bright  green  of 
willows  and  the  dark  green  of  firs,  and  these  merged, 
in  turn,  into  a  land  of  bamboos  and  bananas,  of  oranges 
and  lemons  and  date-palms,  where  the  vegetation  was 
so  luxuriant  and  tropical  as  to  give  it  almost  the  appear- 
ance of  a  botanic  garden.  I  know,  indeed,  of  no  other 
place  in  the  world  where  one  can  pass  through  three  dis- 
tinct zones  of  vegetation  in  the  course  of  an  hour's 
drive,  the  first  few  miles  into  the  interior  of  Saint 
Helena  being,  so  far  as  the  scenery  is  concerned,  like 
a  journey  from  the  rocky,  desolate  shores  of  Labrador, 
through  the  pine  forests  and  fertile  farm-lands  of  New 
England  and  New  York,  and  so  southward  into  the 
essentially  tropical  vegetation  of  lower  Florida. 

The  road  wound  on  and  on,  uncovering  new  beau- 
ties at  every  turn.  Cheerful,  low-roofed  bungalows 
peeped  out  at  us  from  gardens  ablaze  with  camelias, 
fuchsias,  and  roses;  through  the  vistas  formed  by  fig, 
pear,  and  guava  orchards  we  caught  glimpses  of  pros- 
perous-looking stone  farm-houses  whose  thick  walls  and 
high  gables  showed  that  they  dated  from  the  Dutch 
occupation;  passing  above  a  tiny  sylvan  valley,  our 
driver  pointed  out  the  rambling  Balcombe  place,  where 
the  Emperor  lived  for  some  weeks  while  Longwood  was 
being  prepared  for  his  occupancy,  and  in  the  box- 
bordered  gardens  of  which  he  made  quiet  love  to  his 
host's  pretty  daughter.  In  the  same  valley,  not  a 
pistol-shot  away,  are  the  whitewashed,  broad- verandaed 
quarters  of  the  Eastern  Telegraph  Company's  force  of 

265 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

operators — tennis-courts,  cricket-fields,  and  a  swimming- 
pool  set  in  a  lawn  of  emerald  velvet  serving  to  make  the 
enforced  exile  of  these  young  Englishmen,  who  relay  the 
news  of  the  world  between  Europe  and  the  Cape,  a  not 
unpleasant  one. 

Steeper  and  steeper  became  the  road;  scantier  and 
less  luxuriant  the  vegetation,  until  at  last  we  emerged 
upon  a  barren,  wind-swept  table-land.  A  farm-yard  gate 
barred  our  road,  but  at  the  impatient  crack  of  the 
driver's  whip  a  small  brown  maiden  hastened  from  a 
near-by  lodge  to  open  it,  curtseying  to  us  prettily  as  we 
rattled  through.  Three  minutes'  drive  across  a  desolate, 
gorse-covered  moor,  and  our  driver  pulled  up  sharply 
at  a  gate  in  a  scraggy  privet  hedge  surrounding  just 
such  a  ramshackle,  weather-beaten  farm-house  as  you 
find  by  the  hundreds  scattered  along  the  coast  of  Maine. 
"Longwood,"  he  remarked  laconically,  pointing  with 
his  whip.  Convinced  that  I  could  not  have  heard 
aright,  I  asked  him  over  again,  for,  despite  all  the  ac- 
counts I  had  read  of  the  mean  surroundings  amid  which 
the  Emperor  ended  his  days,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
believe  that  this  miserable  cottage,  with  its  sunken  roof 
and  lichen-coated  walls,  could  have  sheltered  for  more 
than  half  a  decade  the  conqueror  of  Europe,  the  master 
of  the  Tuileries  and  Fontainebleau  and  Versailles,  the 
man  whose  troopers  had  stabled  their  horses  in  every 
capital  of  the  Continent. 

Longwood  House  is  an  old-fashioned,  rambling 
cottage,  only  one  story  high,  unless  you  count  the 
quarters  improvised  for  the  members  of  the  Emperor's 

266 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

suite  in  the  garret,  which  were  lighted  by  means  of 
small  windows  cut  in  the  shingle  roof.  The  house  is 
built  in  the  form  of  a  T,  the  entrance,  which  is  reached 
by  four  or  five  stone  steps  and  a  tiny  latticed  veranda, 
being  represented  by  the  bottom  of  the  letter,  while  the 
dining-room,  kitchens,  and  offices  are  represented  by 
the  top.  Originally  the  dwelling  of  a  peasant  farmer,  at 
the  time  Napoleon  reached  the  island  it  was  being  used 
as  a  sort  of  shooting-box  by  the  lieutenant-governor, 
the  present  front  of  the  house  being  hastily  added  to 
form  a  reception-room  for  the  Emperor.  In  addition 
to  this  salle  de  reception,  where  you  are  asked  to  sign 
the  visitors'  book  by  the  old  French  soldier  who  is  the 
official  guardian  of  the  place,  there  is  a  drawing-room, 
a  dining-room,  the  Emperor's  study,  his  bedroom,  bath, 
and  dressing-room — all  small,  ill-lighted,  damp,  and 
cheerless.  Practically  the  entire  lower  floor  of  the  house 
was  used  by  Napoleon,  the  members  of  his  entourage — 
marshals,  ministers,  and  courtiers,  remember,  who  were 
accustomed  to  the  life  of  the  most  brilliant  court  in 
Europe — being  accommodated  in  tiny,  unventilated 
cubby-holes  directly  under  the  eaves.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  two  or  three  small  pier-glasses,  the  house  is 
now  quite  destitute  of  furniture,  though  in  other  re- 
spects it  is  kept  religiously  as  it  was  in  Napoleon's 
time,  even  the  faded  blue  wall-paper,  sprinkled  with 
golden  stars,  having  been  carefully  preserved.  On  the 
walls  of  the  various  rooms  are  notices  in  French  and 
English  indicating  the  purposes  to  which  they  were  put 

during  the  imperial  occupancy.    Between  two  windows 

267 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

of  the  reception-room,  where  the  Emperor's  bed  was 
removed  from  his  bedroom  a  few  days  before  his  death 
because  of  the  better  light,  stands  a  marble  bust  made 
from  the  cast  taken  immediately  after  his  death,  which, 
barring  the  one  made  by  Canova  during  his  life,  is  the 
only  likeness  of  Napoleon  admittedly  correct.  With- 
out the  house  is  the  small  and  unkept  garden  in  which 
the  Emperor  walked  and  sometimes  worked,  the  arbour 
under  which  he  spent  so  many  hours,  and  the  cement- 
lined  fish-pond  which  he  built  with  his  own  hands.  In- 
side or  out,  there  is  not  one  suggestion  of  colour,  of  com- 
fort, or  of  cheer:  it  is  a  prison-house  and  nothing  more. 

Near  the  bottom  of  the  brown  and  windy  hill  on 
which  Longwood  stands  is  Geranium  Valley,  which 
contains  the  tomb,  or  rather  the  cenotaph,  of  the 
Emperor.  It  was  by  Napoleon's  own  wish  that  his 
body  was  buried  in  this  exquisite  spot,  close  beside  the 
spring  at  which  he  so  often  used  to  drink  and  amid  the 
wild  geraniums  of  which  he  was  so  fond.  The  famous 
willow-tree  still  overshadows  the  little  grave-space, 
which  is  enclosed  by  a  high  iron  railing  and  a  carefully 
trimmed  hedge  of  box,  while  masses  of  flowers  give 
brightness  to  a  spot  hallowed  by  many  memories,  for 
it  was  in  this  shady  glen  that  the  Emperor  passed  the 
most  peaceful  hours  of  his  exile  and  it  was  here  that  he 
rested  for  twenty  years  until  France  brought  him  back 
in  triumph  to  his  final  resting-place  under  the  great 
gilt  dome  of  Les  Invalides. 

Both  Longwood  and  the  grave  occupy  the  peculiar 
position  of  being  French  territory  in  the  heart  of  a 

268 


Longwood  House.     "This  miserable  cottage,  with  its  sunken  roof  and  lichen-coated  walls,  sheltered 
for  more  than  half  a  decade  the  ccnqucror  cf  Europe." 


Looking  northward  across  the  Atlantic  from  Longwood.     "To  stare  out  across  the  wastes  of  ocean 
from  that  wind-sweat  hilltop  I  travelled  twenty  thousand  miles." 

THE  PRISON  PLACE  OF  A  GREAT  EMPEROR. 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

British  colony,  for  half  a  century  ago  Queen  Victoria 
presented  the  property  to  the  French  nation,  an  official 
appointed  by  the  French  Government  residing  on  and 
caring  for  the  place  and  showing  it  with  mingled  pride 
and  sadness  to  the  few  visitors  who  make  their  way  to 
this  one  of  the  world's  far  corners.  It  was  an  interesting 
but  gloomy  experience,  that  pilgrimage  to  the  prison 
place  of  the  great  Emperor,  for  it  visualised  for  me,  as 
nothing"  else  ever  could  do,  the  sordidness,  the  humilia- 
tions, and  the  mental  tortures  which  marked  the  last 
years  of  Napoleon.  As  my  vessel  steamed  steadily 
northward  across  the  Atlantic,  with  the  boulevards  of 
Paris  not  three  weeks  away,  I  leaned  over  the  taffrail 
and,  staring  back  at  the  receding  cliffs  of  that  grim 
island,  I  seemed  to  see  the  short,  stoop-shouldered,  gray- 
coated,  cock-hatted  figure  of  the  Emperor  staring  wist- 
fully out  across  those  leagues  of  ocean  toward  France. 

To  locate  the  next  of  these  "Forgotten  Isles,"  and 
the  most  completely  forgotten  of  all  of  them,  you  had 
better  get  out  the  family  atlas  and,  with  a  ruler  and  a 
pencil,  do  a  little  Morris-chair  exploring.  Draw  a  line 
due  south  from  Cape  Verde,  which  is  the  westernmost 
point  of  Africa,  and  another  line  due  east  from  Cape 
San  Roque,  which  is  the  easternmost  point  in  South 
America,  and  where  those  two  lines  meet,  out  in  the 
wastes  of  the  South  Atlantic,  you  will  find  a  barren  rock 
which  resembles,  as,  indeed,  it  is,  an  extinct  and  par- 
tially submerged  volcano.  This  rock,  which  is  con- 
siderably smaller  than  its  sister  island  of  Saint  Helena, 

269 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

seven  hundred  miles  away,  is  officially  designated  by  the 
British  Government  as  H.M.S.  "Ascension."  Entirely 
under  the  control  and  jurisdiction  of  the  Lords  Com- 
missioners of  the  Admiralty,  it  is  unique  in  that  it  is 
the  only  island  in  the  world  which  has  the  rating  of  a 
man-o'-war,  being  garrisoned,  or  rather  manned,  by  a 
detachment  of  sailors  and  marines,  and  being  adminis- 
tered in  every  respect  as  though  it  were  a  unit  of  the 
British  navy.  With  the  exception  of  a  dozen  acres  of 
vegetable  garden,  there  is  not  a  single  green  thing  on 
the  island — grass,  shrub,  or  tree.  The  island  of  Saint 
Pierre,  of  which  I  made  mention  earlier  in  this  chapter,  is 
bad  enough,  goodness  knows,  but  it  at  least  has  a  palm- 
tree.  Ascension  hasn't  even  that.  How  they  get  men 
to  go  there  is  altogether  beyond  my  comprehension.  If 
I  had  to  take  my  choice  between  being  sentenced  to  ex- 
ile on  Ascension  (which  Heaven  forbid!)  or  confinement 
in  Sing  Sing,  I  rather  think  I  should  choose  the  prison. 
There  are  people  on  Ascension,  nevertheless,  the  popu- 
lation, which  consists  of  officers,  seamen,  and  marines, 
together  with  a  handful  of  cable  operators  and  a  score  of 
Kroo  boys  from  Sierra  Leone,  numbering  in  all  about 
one  hundred  and  thirty.  There  were  also  four  women — 
relatives  of  the  officers — on  the  island  when  I  was  there. 
They  had  been  there  only  six  months,  I  was  told,  yet 
when  our  vessel  arrived  not  one  of  them  was  on  speak- 
ing terms  with  the  others.  Ascension,  is,  however,  one 
of  the  most  flourishing  "match  factories"  in  the  Brit- 
ish empire,  it  being  safe  to  say  that  any  unattached 
female,  no  matter  what  her  disqualifications,  can  get  a 

270 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

husband  in  a  week's  stay  on  the  island.  A  young  Eng- 
lishman and  his  bride  boarded  our  boat  at  Ascension. 
She  had  been  born  and  had  spent  all  of  her  life  on  Saint 
Helena  (which  is  not  exactly  a  roaring  metropolis  it- 
self), and  had  married  one  of  the  cable  operators  sta- 
tioned at  Ascension,  who  was  taking  her  on  her  first 
visit  to  the  outside  world.  She  told  me  that  the  event 
of  her  life,  her  marriage  excepted,  had  been  going  out  to 
a  vessel  to  see  a  motor-car  which  was  being  transported 
to  Cape  Town.  Here  was  an  educated  and  intelligent 
English  girl  who  had  come  to  womanhood  without  ever 
having  seen  a  railway  train,  a  street-car,  a  building  over 
two  stories  high,  or  a  crowd  of  more  than  five  hundred 
people.  When  we  reached  TenerirTe,  in  the  Canaries, 
which  is  about  as  somnolent  a  place  as  any  I  know,  her 
husband  took  her  ashore  to  see  the  sights  with  keen  an- 
ticipation. She  rode  on  an  electric  car,  she  took  tea 
in  a  four-story  hotel,  she  attended  a  moving-picture 
show — and  was  brought  back  to  the  steamer  suffering 
from  violent  hysterics.  A  week  later  we  reached  South- 
ampton, where  she  was  so  completely  prostrated  by  the 
roar  and  bustle  of  her  first  city  that  she  had  to  go  to  bed 
under  medical  attention. 

To  those  British  officials  and  soldiers  who  are  per- 
forming the  manifold  duties  of  empire  along  Africa's 
fever-stricken  West  Coast,  the  island  of  Ascension  is  a 
godsend,  for  an  excellent  sanatorium  has  been  built  by 
the  government  on  its  highest  point,  and  to  it  come 
wasted,  sunken-cheeked,  fever-racked  skeletons  from  all 
parts  of  that  coast  of  death  to  build  up  their  strength  be- 

271 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

fore  going  back  to  their  work  again.  Not  only  is  Ascen- 
sion a  coaling,  cable,  and  health  station  of  considerable 
importance,  but  it  is  also  the  chief  habitat  of  the  sea- 
turtle,  which  comes  there  in  thousands  between  January 
and  May,  to  lay  its  eggs  in  the  sand.  After  having  seen 
the  enormous  size  these  creatures  attain,  it  is  almost 
possible  to  believe  some  of  those  fantastic  yarns  about 
his  trained  turtles  with  which  Baron  de  Rougemont  set 
Europe  gasping  a  few  years  back.  During  the  year  that 
I  visited  Ascension  more  than  two  hundred  turtles  were 
captured,  ranging  in  weight  from  five  hundred  to  eight 
hundred  pounds  apiece.  Four  of  the  monsters,  each 
weighing  close  to  half  a  ton,  were  put  aboard  our  vessel, 
being  sent  by  the  officers  of  the  garrison  as  a  gift  to  his 
Majesty  the  King.  They  must  have  had  turtle  soup  at 
Buckingham  Palace  for  several  days  in  succession  after 
those  turtles  arrived. 

It  could  not  have  been  long  after  daybreak  when 
a  frousy-headed  Greek  steward  awoke  me  with  an  in- 
timation that  we  were  off  Canea.  The  evil-smelling 
mixture  which  was  called  coffee  only  by  courtesy,  and 
which  was  really  chicory  in  disguise,  held  no  attraction 
for  me,  for,  through  the  port-holes  of  the  dining-saloon 
I  could  see,  rising  from  a  sapphire  sea,  the  green-clad, 
snow-capped  mountains  of  Crete,  the  island  of  mythol- 
ogy and  massacre. 

Our  little  steamer  forged  ahead  at  half-speed  and 
the  white  town  kept  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  until 
we  could  distinguish  the  caiques  in  the  harbour,  and  the 

272 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

queer,  narrow  houses  with  their  latticed  harem  windows 
which  encircled  it,  and  the  white  mosque  with  a  palm- 
tree  silhouetted  against  its  slender  minaret,  and  even 
the  crowd  of  ebony,  tan,  and  coffee-coloured  humanity 
that  fought  for  posts  of  vantage  at  the  water-stairs.  It 
was  a  picture  of  sunshine  and  animation,  of  vivid  colours 
and  strange  peoples,  such  as  one  seldom  sees  except  in 
some  gorgeously  staged  comic  opera,  and  as  I  surveyed 
it  sleepily  from  the  steamer's  deck  I  had  a  momentary 
feeling  that  I  was  only  an  onlooker  at  a  play  and  that 
the  curtain  would  go  down  presently  and  I  should  have 
to  go  out  into  the  drab,  prosaic,  humdrum  world  again. 
But  even  as  this  was  in  my  mind  a  gun  boomed  out 
from  a  crumbling  bastion  and  five  little  balls  ran  up  five 
flagstaffs  which  I  had  already  noticed  standing  all  in  a 
row  on  the  uppermost  ramparts  and  had  mistaken, 
naturally  enough,  for  some  new  form  of  Marconi  ap- 
paratus. The  five  little  balls  broke  out  into  five  flags 
and  the  morning  breeze  caught  up  their  folds  and  held 
them  straight  out  as  though  for  our  benefit,  so  that 
we  could  make  them  out  quite  plainly.  Four  of  them 
were  old  friends  that  I  had  known  on  many  seas — the 
Union  Jack  and  the  Tricolour  and  the  Saint  Andrew's 
cross  of  Russia  and  the  red-white-and-green  banner  of 
Italy — but  the  fifth  flag,  which  flew  somewhat  higher 
than  the  others,  was  of  unfamiliar  design;  but  the  blood- 
red  square  of  bunting,  traversed  by  the  Greek  cross  and 
bearing  in  its  upper  corner  the  star  of  Bethlehem,  told 
its  own  story  and  I  knew  it  for  the  flag  of  Crete.  And 
I  knew  that  there  was  deep  significance  in  the  design 

273 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

of  that  unknown  flag  and  in  the  position  of  the  four 
f amiliar  ones  that  flew  below  it,  for  they  signalled  to  the 
world  that  the  Turk  had  been  driven  out,  never  to  re- 
turn; that  Christianity  had  triumphed  over  Moham- 
medanism, and  that  the  cross  had,  indeed,  replaced  the 
crescent;  that  the  centuries  of  massacre  were  now  but 
memories;  that  peace,  in  the  guise  of  foreign  soldiery, 
had,  for  a  time  at  least,  found  an  abiding-place  in  Crete; 
and,  most  significant  of  all,  that  the  new  flag  with  its 
single  star  would  be  upheld,  if  necessary,  by  the  mighti- 
est array  of  bayonets  and  battle-ships  in  Christendom. 
The  island  of  Crete,  which  is  about  the  size  of 
Porto  Rico,  not  only  occupies  a  very  important  strate- 
gical position,  being  nearly  equidistant  from  the  coasts 
of  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  commanding  every  line  of 
communication  in  the  eastern  Mediterranean,  and  be- 
ing within  easy  striking  distance  of  the  Strait  of  Gi- 
braltar, the  Dardanelles,  and  the  Canal,  but  it  is  also  one 
of  the  richest  agricultural  regions  in  the  world,  or  would 
be  if  the  warring  elements  among  its  population  would 
permit  the  rattle  of  the  harvester  to  replace  the  rattle 
of  the  machine-gun.  Ever  since  the  Turks  wrested  the 
island  from  the  Venetians,  close  on  two  and  a  half  cen- 
turies ago,  its  history  has  been  one  of  corruption,  cruelty, 
and  massacre.  Almost  annually,  for  more  than  seventy 
years,  the  island  Christians  rose  in  rebellion  against 
their  Turkish  masters,  and  just  as  regularly  the  Turks 
suppressed  those  rebellions  with  a  severity  which  turned 
the  towns  of  the  island  into  shambles  and  its  fertile 
farm-lands  into  a  deserted  wilderness.     The  cruelty 

274 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

which  coupled  the  name  of  Turk  with  execration  in 
Armenia  and  Macedonia  assumed  such  atrocious  forms 
in  Crete  that  finally  the  great  powers  were  aroused  to 
action,  and  in  1898  the  fleets  of  England,  France,  Italy, 
and  Russia  dropped  anchor  in  Suda  Bay,  the  Turkish 
officials  were  forcibly  deported,  and  a  board  of  admirals 
assumed  control  of  the  affairs  of  the  unhappy  island. 
After  a  few  months  of  martial  government,  during  which 
the  admirals  squabbled  continuously  among  themselves, 
the  intervening  powers  proclaimed  the  island  an  autono- 
mous state,  subject  to  the  Porte,  but  paying  no  tribute, 
and  ruled  by  a  high  commissioner  to  be  appointed  by 
the  King  of  the  Hellenes.  Though  theoretically  inde- 
pendent, it  was  provided  that  all  questions  concerning 
the  foreign  relations  of  Crete  should  be  determined  by 
the  representatives  of  the  powers,  who  would  also  main- 
tain in  the  island,  for  a  time  at  least,  an  international 
army  of  occupation.  Recent  events  in  the  Balkans 
having  resulted  in  bringing  about  an  agitation  in  Crete 
for  annexation  to  Greece,  where  a  propaganda  has  long 
been  vigorously  carried  on  with  that  end  in  view,  the 
protecting  powers  have  definitely  announced  that  the 
administration  of  the  island  will  be  continued  by  the 
"  constituted  authorities  "  (this  should  read  "  self -consti- 
tuted") until  the  question  can  be  settled  with  the  con- 
sent of  Turkey.  As  things  stand  at  present,  the  with- 
drawal of  the  international  troops  from  Crete  is  about 
as  distant  as  the  withdrawal  of  the  British  garrisons 
from  Egypt.  To  tell  the  truth,  each  of  the  protect- 
ing powers  is  exceedingly  anxious  to  get  the  island  for 

27s 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

itself — England  because  it  forms  an  admirable  half- 
way house  between  Gibraltar  and  the  Canal;  France 
because  its  occupation  would  carry  French  influence 
into  the  eastern  end  of  the  Mediterranean;  Italy  be- 
cause it  would  serve  as  a  connecting  link  between  the 
peninsula  and  Tripolitania;  and  Russia  because  it  would 
give  her  the  command  of  the  entrance  to  the  Darda- 
nelles— and  hence,  though  they  will  certainly  never  re- 
store it  to  Turkey,  they  are  far  from  anxious  to  hand  it 
over  to  Greece,  to  whom,  after  all,  it  belongs  historically, 
geographically,  and  ethnologically.  As  a  result,  the 
Cretan  question  will  probably  disturb  the  chancelleries 
of  Europe  for  some  years  to  come. 

As  I  strained  my  eyes  across  the  sparkling  waters 
in  vain  search  for  signs  of  a  hotel  and  breakfast,  a  boat 
flying  the  port-captain's  flag  and  manned  by  gendarmes 
— splendid,  muscular  fellows  with  high  boots  and  bare 
knees  and  baggy  Turkish  trousers,  their  keen  brown 
faces  peering  out  from  under  their  fluttering  cap-covers 
— came  racing  out  from  shore.  As  it  came  alongside 
the  crew  tossed  oars  with  all  the  smartness  of  man-o'- 
war's-men;  the  white-clad  officer  in  the  stern,  who  was 
very  stout  and  very  stiffly  starched,  climbed  the  stairs 
gingerly,  as  though  fearful  of  injuring  the  faultless 
crease  in  his  linen  trousers,  and,  after  the  exchange  of 
ceremonious  bows  and  laboured  compliments  in  French, 
informed  me  that  the  High  Commissioner  had  placed 
the  boat  at  my  disposal.  There  is  always  something 
peculiarly  satisfying  to  the  soul  about  going  ashore  un- 
der official  auspices,  not  only  because  of  the  envious 

276 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

glances  of  your  fellow-passengers  who  line  the  rail,  but 
because  of  the  powerlessness  of  the  customs  officials  to 
annoy  you. 

Canea,  which  is  the  seat  of  government,  is  the  most 
picturesquely  cosmopolitan  place  west  of  Suez.  It  has 
a  mild  and  equable  climate;  living  is  cheap  and  reason- 
ably good;  there  is  a  large  garrison  of  foreign  soldiery; 
there  are  no  extradition  treaties  in  force;  and  trouble 
of  one  kind  or  another  is  always  brewing.  Like  a 
magnet,  therefore,  Canea  has  attracted  the  scum  and 
offscourings  of  all  the  Levant — needy  soldiers  of  fortune, 
professional  revolution-makers,  smooth-spoken  gamblers 
and  confidence  men,  rouged  and  powdered  women  of 
easy  virtue  from  east  and  west,  Egyptian  donkey-boys, 
out-at-elbows  dragomans  who  speak  a  score  of  tongues 
and  hail  from  goodness  knows  where — all  that  rabble  of 
the  needy,  the  adventurous,  and  the  desperate  which 
follow  the  armies  of  occupation  and  are  always  to  be 
found  on  the  fringe  of  civilisation. 

The  foreign  troops  are  quartered  for  the  most  part 
on  the  massive  Venetian  ramparts  which  still  surround 
the  town,  but  all  business  centres  along  the  narrow, 
stone-paved  quay  bordering  the  harbour,  and  in  a 
straggling  thoroughfare  which,  leaving  the  water-front 
through  a  fine  old  gate  still  bearing  the  carven  Hon  of 
Saint  Mark,  serves  as  the  vertebra  for  an  amazing  tangle 
of  dim  alleys  and  deafening  bazaars,  in  which  all  the 
products  of  the  Levant  are  bought  and  sold  amid  inde- 
scribable confusion. 

Canea  is  at  its  best  at  sunset,  for  it  is  not  until 
277 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

then  that  the  town  awakens  to  life.  As  the  sun  begins 
to  sink  behind  the  Aspra  Vouna,  the  streets,  hitherto 
deserted,  become  thronged  as  though  by  magic;  the 
spaces  before  the  cafes  are  packed  with  coffee-drinking, 
nargileh-smoking  humanity  of  all  shades  and  of  all 
religions;  the  soldiers  begin  to  appear  in  groups  of  twos 
and  threes  and  fours;  the  clerks  in  the  shipping-offices 
put  on  white  drill  jackets,  and  sit  in  chairs  tipped  back 
against  their  doors,  and  drink  from  tall,  thin  glasses  with 
ice  tinkling  in  them,  and  the  muezzin,  brazen-throated, 
appears  on  the  balcony  of  his  minaret,  reminding  one 
for  all  the  world  of  a  Swiss  cuckoo-clock  as  he  pops 
out  to  chant  his  interminable  call  to  prayer:  "Allahu 
il  Allahu!  Allahu  Akbar!  God  is  most  great!  Come 
to  prayer!  There  is  no  God  but  Allah!  He  giveth  life 
and  dieth  not!  Your  sins  are  great;  greater  is  Allah's 
mercy!  I  extol  his  perfections!  Allahu  il  Allahu! 
Allahu  Akbar!" 

It  is  such  a  scene  as  one  marks  with  the  white  mile- 
stone of  remembrance  that  he  may  go  back  to  it  in  mem- 
ory in  after  years.  Picture,  if  you  can,  a  stone-paved 
promenade  bordering  a  U-shaped  harbour.  In  the 
harbour  are  many  craft — all  small  ones,  for  it  is  too 
shallow  for  the  great  steamers  to  enter.  There  are 
caiques  with  sails  of  orange,  of  scarlet,  and  of  yellow; 
schooners,  grain-laden,  from  Egypt  and  Turkey  and 
Greece;  fishing-boats  with  rakish  lateen-sails  and  great 
goggle  eyes  painted  at  their  bows  to  ward  off  the  evil  eye, 
and,  so  the  sailors  will  tell  you,  to  detect  the  fish.  And 
along  the  quayside,  where  the  human  stream  wanders 

278 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

restlessly,  there  are  Greeks  in  tufted  shoes  and  snowy 
fustanellas  that  make  them  look  like  ballet-dancers; 
swarthy  Turks  in  scarlet  sashes  and  scarlet  fezes,  wear- 
ing the  unsightly  trousers  peculiar  to  their  race;  bare- 
kneed  Cretan  highlanders,  descendants  in  form  and 
feature  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  swaggering  along  with 
insolent  grace  in  their  braided,  sleeveless  jackets  and 
high  boots  of  yellow,  untanned  leather;  Algerians  in 
graceful  flowing  burnooses  and  Egyptians  with  tar- 
booshes and  Arabs  with  turbans — now  and  then  a 
mollah  with  scornful,  intolerant  eyes  and  the  green 
turban  which  marks  the  wearer  as  a  descendant  of  the 
Prophet — and  brawny,  coal-black  negroes  from  Tripoli, 
from  Nubia,  and  from  the  Sudan. 

And  then  there  are  the  soldiers:  British  Tommies, 
smart  even  in  khaki,  boots  shining,  buckles  shining,  faces 
shining,  swaggering  along  this  Cretan  street  and  flour- 
ishing their  absurd  little  canes  precisely  as  their  fellows 
are  doing  all  over  the  globe;  French  colonials,  swathed 
in  blue  puttees  from  ankle  to  knee  and  in  red  cummer- 
bunds from  hip  to  chest,  their  misery  completed  by 
mushroom  helmets  so  large  that  nothing  can  be  seen  of 
the  wearer  but  his  chin;  chattering  Italian  bersaglieri, 
who  strut  about  in  cocks'  feathers  and  crimson  facings 
when  at  home  in  the  Corso  or  the  Toledo  or  the  Via 
Vittorio  Emmanuele,  but  out  here  must  needs  content 
their  vanity  with  white  linen  uniforms  and  green  hackle 
in  their  helmets;  sad-faced  Russians,  uniformed  as 
they  would  be  in  summer  in  Saint  Petersburg  or  Mos- 
cow, flat  white  caps,  belted  white  smocks,  trousers 

279 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

tucked  in  boots,  their  good-humoured,  ignorant  faces 
stamped  with  all  the  signs  of  homesickness,  for  their 
thoughts  are  far  away  in  some  squalid  tenement  in  the 
poor  quarter  of  Warsaw  perhaps,  or  in  a  peasant's  cabin 
beside  the  head-waters  of  the  Volga. 

Though  Canea  is  the  seat  of  government,  Candia — 
or  Heraklian,  the  classic  name  by  which  the  Greeks  pre- 
fer to  call  it — is  the  largest  and  most  important  town 
on  the  island.  Disregarding  the  advice  of  friends,  I 
went  from  Canea  to  Candia  on  a  Greek  coasting  steamer. 
No  one  ever  takes  a  first-class  passage  on  a  Greek  boat, 
for  the  second  and  third  class  passengers  invariably 
come  aft  and  stay  there,  despite  the  commands  and 
entreaties  of  the  purser,  so  a  third-class  ticket  answers 
quite  as  well  as  a  first.  Fortunately — or  unfortunately, 
as  you  choose  to  regard  it — I  had  as  fellow  voyagers 
a  company  of  British  infantry,  which  was  being  trans- 
ferred to  Candia  after  three  years'  service  in  the  west- 
ern end  of  the  island.  The  soldiers,  who  had  managed 
to  smuggle  aboard  a  considerable  quantity  of  rum, 
quickly  got  beyond  the  control  of  the  boy  lieutenant, 
just  out  of  Sandhurst,  who  was  in  command,  and  who, 
appreciating  that  discretion  is  the  better  part  of  valour, 
especially  where  a  hundred  drunken  soldiers  are  con- 
cerned, wisely  left  them  to  their  own  boisterous  devices 
and  retreated  with  me  to  the  captain's  quarters  on  the 
bridge,  where  we  remained  until  we  sighted  Candia's 
harbour  lights  and  our  anchor  rumbled  down  inside  the 
breakwater. 

Were  it  not  for  the  massive  Venetian  walls  which 
280 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

surround  it,  Candia  would  have  almost  the  appearance 
of  an  Indian  town,  the  similarity  being  increased  by  its 
dark-faced,  gaily  dressed  inhabitants  and  by  the  British 
soldiers  who  throng  its  streets.  A  single  broad,  stone- 
paved  thoroughfare,  lined  in  places  with  shade-trees  and 
surprisingly  clean,  winds  like  a  snake  from  the  harbour 
up  the  hill,  past  rows  of  blackened  ruins — grim  remind- 
ers of  the  latest  insurrection — past  square  after  square 
of  white- walled,  red- tiled  houses;  through  noisy  bazaars 
where  the  turbaned  shopkeepers  squat  patiently  in  their 
doorways;  past  unkept  marble  fountains  whose  stained 
carvings  would  make  many  a  museum  director  envious; 
past  mosques  with  slender,  graceful  minarets  and  groups 
of  filthy  beggars  grovelling  on  their  steps  for  alms;  past 
the  ornate,  twin-domed  Greek  cathedral,  and  so  on  to 
the  ramparts  where  the  British  garrison  is  quartered  in 
yellow  barracks  that  overlook  the  sea. 

But  the  real  Crete  is  no  more  to  be  judged  from 
glimpses  of  Canea  and  Candia  than  America  could  be 
judged  by  visiting  New  York  and  Chicago.  It  is  in  the 
picturesque  mountain  villages  of  the  Sphakiote  range 
that  the  genuine,  untamed,  unmixed  fighting  Cretan  is 
to  be  found,  for  these  dwellers  on  the  slopes  of  Mount 
Ida,  alone  of  all  the  scattered  branches  of  the  great 
Hellenic  family,  have  preserved  in  form  and  feature 
the  splendid  physical  characteristics  of  the  ancient 
Greeks.  With  the  Governor  of  Candia  for  my  guide, 
the  mountain  village  of  Archanais  as  our  destination, 
and  with  an  escort  of  gendarmerie  clattering  at  our 
heels,  we  set  out  from  Candia  one  morning  before  the 

281 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

sun  was  over  the  walls,  for  we  had  forty  miles  of  hard 
riding  between  us  and  dinner,  and  roads  in  the  Spha- 
kiote  country  often  consist  of  nothing  more  than  dried- 
up  water-courses.  For  the  first  few  miles  the  road  was 
crowded  with  peasantry  bringing  their  produce  to  mar- 
ket— droves  of  donkeys,  wine-skin-laden;  long  strings 
of  the  sturdy,  shaggy  native  ponies  tethered  head  to 
tail  and  tail  to  head,  their  panniers  filled  with  purple  figs 
or  new-dug  potatoes;  sullen-eyed  Turks  driving  rude 
native  carts,  their  women-folk  veiled  to  the  eyes  and 
hiding  even  them  in  the  presence  of  the  giaours;  chatter- 
ing Greeks  with  homespun  rugs  or  bundles  of  the  heavy 
native  lace;  now  and  then  a  prosperous  farmer,  strid- 
ing along  with  a  peculiar  rolling  walk,  due  to  the  round- 
soled  boots  affected  by  the  islanders,  carrying  a  measure 
of  potatoes  or  perhaps  a  pair  of  fowls  in  the  baggy  seat 
of  his  enormous  trousers.  We  passed  a  grass-grown 
Turkish  cemetery  where  the  gilded  tombstones,  capped 
by  carven  fezes  or  turbans  in  the  case  of  men,  and  shells 
in  that  of  women,  blazed  in  the  morning  sunlight,  while, 
a  little  farther  on,  we  halted  for  a  few  moments  before 
the  tomb  of  a  revered  sheikh,  almost  hidden  by  the  bits 
of  cloth  which  the  passing  faithful  had  torn  from  their 
garments  and  tied  to  it. 

Some  half  a  dozen  miles  inland  from  Candia  lie 
the  ruins  of  Knossos,  the  one-time  palace  of  King  Minos, 
a  powerful  monarch  of  the  Mycenaean  age  who  is  sup- 
posed to  have  ruled  in  Crete  during  that  hazy  era  when 
mythology  ended  and  history  began.    The  audience 

chamber  and  the  royal  throne,  which  were  old  when  the 

282 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

Pyramids  were  built,  are  still  in  a  perfect  state  of  pres- 
ervation, though  these  amazing  evidences  of  prehis- 
toric grandeur  are  no  more  interesting  than  the  mar- 
vellous network  of  cellars  and  subterranean  passages 
which  underlie  the  palace,  many  of  them  still  lined,  just 
as  they  were  five  thousand  years  ago,  with  row  upon  row 
of  mammoth  earthen  jars  for  the  storage  of  grain,  of 
olives,  and  of  wine  in  time  of  famine  or  siege.  Many 
eminent  archaeologists,  by  the  way,  maintain  that  it 
was  from  this  bewildering  maze  of  corridors  and  pas- 
sage-ways that  the  legend  of  the  Minotaur  and  the 
labyrinth,  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  in  Crete,  arose. 
Were  Crete  as  easy  of  access  as  Egypt,  these  ruins  of 
Knossos  would  long  since  have  taken  rank  with  those 
which  dot  the  banks  of  the  Upper  Nile. 

Half  a  dozen  hours  of  riding  over  an  open,  sun- 
baked country  and  later  through  gloomy  pine  woods 
and  mountain  denies,  with  an  occasional  halt  at  a  way- 
side xenodocheion  that  the  troopers  of  our  escort  might 
refresh  themselves  with  that  nauseous-tasting  fermenta- 
tion of  rice  known  as  arrack,  which  is  the  national  drink 
of  Greece,  brought  us  at  last,  hot,  saddle-worn,  and 
weary,  into  the  village  square  of  Archanais.  The  de- 
march  of  the  town,  with  a  dozen  or  so  of  the  insurrec- 
tionist chieftains  from  the  surrounding  mountains, 
awaited  our  coming  beneath  a  hoary  plane-tree  that 
shaded  half  the  village  square.  Seats  were  placed  for 
us  beneath  its  grateful  shade,  and,  with  the  ceremony 
of  which  the  Greeks  are  so  fond,  we  were  served  with 
small  cups  of  Turkish  coffee  and  with  the  inevitable 

283 


THE  LAST  FRONTIER 

loukoum,  which  is  a  candy  resembling  "Turkish  de- 
light." This  formal  welcome,  which  no  Cretan  ever 
neglects,  completed,  we  were  escorted  to  the  house  of 
the  demarch,  with  whom  we  were  to  dine.  It  was  a 
long,  low-roofed,  homelike  dwelling,  red  tiles  above  and 
white  plaster  beneath,  and  surrounding  it  a  garden 
ablaze  with  flowers.  Met  at  the  door  by  a  servant  with 
a  pitcher  of  chased  brass,  we  proceeded  to  wash  in  the 
open  air,  the  domestic  pouring  the  water  over  our  hands 
in  a  steady  stream,  according  to  the  Cretan  fashion. 

The  dinner  was  beyond  description.  From  a  Cre- 
tan standpoint  it  was  doubtless  a  feast  for  the  gods. 
I,  being  ravenous  with  hunger,  asked  not  the  names 
of  the  strange  dishes,  but  enjoyed  everything  that  was 
set  before  me  as  only  a  hungry  man  can.  The  meal 
began  with  ripe  olives  and  spiced  meat  chopped  up  with 
wheat  grains  and  wrapped  in  mulberry  leaves;  it  passed 
on  through  a  course  that  resembled  fried  egg-plant  but 
wasn't;  through  duck,  stuffed  with  rice  and  olives  and 
cooked  in  oil,  and  a  pudding  that  tasted  as  though  it 
had  been  flavoured  with  eau  de  cologne,  concluding  with 
small  native  melons,  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled 
for  flavour  except  in  Turkestan,  and,  of  course,  coffee 
and  cigarettes.  The  meal  lasted  something  over  three 
hours,  and  then,  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  divan  which 
ran  entirely  around  the  room,  the  whole  party  dropped 
one  by  one  to  sleep.  The  one  recollection  of  Archanais 
which  will  always  remain  with  me  is  that  of  a  roomful 
of  swarthy-faced,  black-moustached,  baggy-trousered, 
armed-to-the-teeth,  overfed  men,  notorious  revolution- 

284 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ISLES 

ists  every  one,  all  sound  asleep  and  all  snoring  like 
steam-engines. 

That  night  we  rode  down  the  mountains  in  the 
moonlight,  the  snow-capped  peaks  looming  luridly 
against  the  purple  sky.  The  moonbeams  lighted  up 
the  ruined  farmsteads  which  we  passed  and  played  fit- 
fully among  the  gnarled  branches  of  the  ancient  olive- 
trees,  giving  to  the  silent  land  an  aspect  of  unutterable 
peace.  The  whole  world  seemed  sleeping  and  the  hoofs 
of  our  horses  rang  loudly  against  the  stones.  The  road 
which  had  been  white  with  dust  in  the  morning  was 
a  ribbon  of  silver  now;  the  stately  palm-trees  stirred 
ever  so  gently  in  the  night  breeze;  the  ruins  of  ancient 
Knossos  grew  larger  in  the  moonlight  until  all  its  an- 
cient glory  seemed  restored;  the  crosses  on  the  Greek 
cathedral  and  the  crescents  on  the  slender  minarets 
seemed  to  raise  themselves  in  harmony  like  fingers 
pointing  toward  heaven;  the  great  guns  that  frowned 
from  the  ramparts  were  hidden  in  the  shadows — all  was 
silence,  beauty,  infinite  peace,  until,  as  we  walked  our 
tired  horses  slowly  across  the  creaking  drawbridge  into 
the  city,  a  helmeted  figure  stepped  from  the  shadow 
of  the  walls,  a  rifle  flashed  in  the  moonlight,  and  a  harsh 
voice  challenged: 

"Halt!    Who  goes  there?" 


285 


INDEX 


Abbas  Hilmi  II,  112. 

Abyssinia,  10. 

Africanders,  226. 

Agriculture  in:    French  Africa,  24; 

German  Africa,  181;  Morocco,  32; 

Rhodesia,  214;  South  Africa,  234; 

the    Sudan,    128;     Tripolitania, 

85-86. 
Ahaggar  (Sahara),  24. 
Alexandria,  bombardment  of,  111. 
Algeria,  3,  9,  14,  16. 
Algerian  hinterland,  57. 
Algiers,  10. 
Americans  in:  Rhodesia,  217-8;  the 

Transvaal,  237. 
Anglo-German  secret  treaty,  178-9. 
Angola,  177-8. 
Antanarivo,  9. 
Arab:    justice,     75;    resistance    to 

Italian   rule,  98;    weddings,  78; 

women,  77. 
Arabi  Pasha,  no. 
Arabi's  rebellion,  in. 
Archanais  (Crete),  283. 
Artesian  wells  in  the  Sahara,  22. 
Ascension  Island,  269. 
Ashantee,  254. 
Assuan  dam,  123. 
Atlas  Mountains,  31. 
Aujila  oases,  88. 

Bagirmi,  100. 
Barbary  Coast,  8. 
Barka  (Tripolitania),  87. 
Barnato,  Barney,  243. 
Barotseland,  196. 

Beira  (Port.  East  Africa),  206  et  seq. 
Beit,  Alfred,  193. 

Belgian  Congo,  176-7;  communica- 
tions in,  187;  reversion  of,  177. 
Benghazi  (Tripolitania),  84,  87. 
Berbers,  36. 


Bey  of  Tunis,  64. 

Big  game  in  Rhodesia,  196. 

Biskra  (Algeria),  60. 

"Blue  tongue,"  232. 

Boers,  226. 

Bornu,  100. 

Botha,  General  Louis,  233  el  seq. 

Bridge  over  the  Zambezi,  194. 

British    in:     Egypt,    in    et    seq.; 

South  Africa,  223  et  seq. 
British  South  Africa  Company,  212. 
Broken  Hill  (Rhodesia),  194. 
Bulawayo  (Rhodesia),  190. 
Bwana  M'kubwa  (Rhodesia),  194. 

Candia  (Crete),  280  et  seq. 
Canea  (Crete),  272  et  seq. 
Cannibalism,  253. 

"  Cape-to-Cairo  "  Railway,  190  et  seq. 
Cape  Town,  203,  227. 
Capitulations,   privileges   conferred 

by  Ottoman,  113. 
Caravans,  17,  19,  91. 
Ceuta  (Morocco),  47. 
Chartered  companies,  212. 
Colomb-Bechar  (Morocco),  8. 
Colour   problem   in   South   Africa, 

226-8. 
Consuls,  powers  of,  in  Egypt,  114 

et  seq. 
Cost  of  living  in  Rhodesia,  217. 
Cotton  culture  in:  Egypt,  124;  the 

Sudan.  142. 
Country  clubs,  beneficial  effects  of, 

in  Rhodesia,  216. 
Crete.  272  et  seq.;  administration  of, 

275;  foreign  troops  in,  279-280; 

hospitality  in,    283-4;    insurrec- 
tions in.  274. 
Crime  in  South  Africa,  229. 
Crispl,  92. 
Cromer,  Lord,  117. 


287 


INDEX 


Cullinan,  "The  Great,"  diamond, 

239- 
Cyrenaica,  87. 

Dahomey,  4,  9,  25. 
Dakar  (Senegal),  11,  53. 
Dam  at  Assuan,  202. 
Dancing  girls,  58  et  seq. 
Dar-es-Salam  (German  East  Africa), 

185. 
DeBeers   syndicate,    formation   of, 

243- 

Delta  of  the  Nile,  124. 

Derna,  capture  of,  by  Americans,  83. 

Desert:  reclamation,  21;  transporta- 
tion, 23. 

Diamond:  fields  at  Kimberley,  242; 
mining,  234  et  seq. 

Dining-cars  on  "Cape-to-Cairo" 
Ry.,  219. 

Dir6-Dawah  (Abyssinia),  10. 

Divorce:  court  in  Tunis,  71;  in  Al- 
geria, 70. 

Djibouti  (French  Somali  Coast),  9. 

Drainage  project  in  Egypt,  124. 

Dutch  in  South  Africa,  224. 

Eaton's,  Gen.  William,  capture  of 
Derna,  83. 

Education  in  French  Africa,  6. 

Egypt,  108  et  seq.;  army,  118;  edu- 
cation, 120;  future  of,  141;  govern- 
ment, 111  et  seq.;  irrigation,  122; 
justice,  113,  116;  Khedive,  112, 
116, 117,  124;  land  values  in,  121. 

Egyptian  Debt  Commission,  112. 

El  Araish  (Morocco),  48. 

England's  desire  for  railway  zone  in 
German  Africa,  198. 

Execution  in  Tunis,  65. 

Fantasias,  16. 

Fashoda:  see  Kodok. 

Fevers  in  East  Africa,  152. 

Fez  (Morocco),  9. 

Fezzan  (Tripoli tania),  84,  86. 

Flowers  in  Morocco,  ^3~ 

Foreign  Legion,  15. 

France's  African  army,  12-14. 


Franco-Spanish  treaty,  46. 

French:  Africa,  1  et  seq.;  colonial  ex- 
pansion, 1  et  seq.;  Congo  (see 
French  Equatorial  Africa) ;  Equa- 
torial Africa,  4;  Guinea,  4,  9; 
Sahara,  5;  Somali  Coast,  5;  sphere 
of  influence,  2  et  seq.;  steamers,  11; 
treatment  of  natives,  16,  42,  75. 

German  Africa,  165  et  seq.;  climate 
of,  180;  railways  in,  179. 

German  colonial  expansion,  166; 
desire  for  the  Congo,  176  et  seq.; 
desire  for  Zanzibar,  164;  East 
Africa,  175,  185-6;  trade  of,  186; 
interests  in  Morocco,  172. 

German  militarism  in  Africa,  182, 
186;  overseas  banks,  168-170; 
treatment  of  the  natives,  182-4; 
Southwest  Africa,  175. 

Germany's  foreign  policy,  17 1-2; 
oversea  interests,  170. 

Golf  in  Zanzibar,  149. 

Gordon,  General  Charles  George, 
203. 

Gordon  Memorial  College  at  Khar- 
toum, 140. 

Great  Bend  of  the  Niger,  9. 

"Groote  Schuur,"  the  home  of  Cecil 
Rhodes,  223. 

Guano  islands,  257. 

Harbours:  in  French  West  Africa, 

10;  in  German  Southwest  Africa, 

188. 
Harems,  life  in,  69  et  seq. 
Hay's,  Sir  John  Drummond,  speech 

to  Sultan  of  Morocco,  44. 
Heraklian.     (See  Candia.) 
Hicks-Beach,  Sir  Michael,  and  Cecil 

Rhodes,  192. 

Illicit  diamond  buying,  244. 
Irrigation  in:  Egypt,  122;    French 

North  Africa,  21;    South  Africa, 

233;  Sudan, 21, 128. 
Ismail  Pasha,  108  et  seq. 
Italy  in  Africa,  80  et  seq. 
Ivory  Coast,  4,  9. 


288 


INDEX 


Ivory:   market    m  Zanzibar,    153; 
trade,  153  et  seq. 

Jamestown  (Saint  Helena),  262-4. 
Jimini  (Ivory  Coast),  9. 
Jof  (Sahara),  99  el  seq. 
Johannesburg,  203,  235  et  seq. 

Kabyle  marriage  customs,  68. 
Kabyles,  the,  65  et  seq.;  sale  of  their 

daughters  by,  66. 
Kabylia  (Algeria),  65. 
Kamerun,  173-6. 
Kamerun,  New,  173-6. 
Kanem  (French  Sudan),  5,  9,  100. 
Kangas,  154. 
Karroo,  the,  233. 
Katanga  District  (Belgian  Congo), 

195-6. 
Keetmanshoop  (German  Southwest 

Africa),  188. 
Khalifa,  the,  20,  197. 
Khartoum,  138  et  seq. 
King  Assibi  of  the  Gold  Coast,  254. 
King  Kabanga  of  Uganda,  254. 
King  Minos  of  Crete,  282. 
King   Prempeh   of   Ashantee,    254 

et  seq. 
Kitchener,  Lord,  of  Khartoum,  112, 

118. 
Knossos,  ruins  of,  282. 
Kodok     (Anglo-Egyptian     Sudan), 

20. 
Kosti  (Anglo-Egyptian  Sudan),  198. 
Kourassa  (French  Guinea),  9. 
Krtiger,  President  Paul,  238. 
Kufra  Oases,  88,  99. 
Kumasi  (Ashantee),  254. 

Labor,  demand    for,  in  Rhodesia, 

218. 
Lake  No,  137. 
Lake  Tanganyika,  187. 
Lake  Tchad,  9. 
Language  problem  in  South  Africa. 

224. 
Laraiche.     (See  El  Araish.) 
Liberia,  3. 
Libya,  80  et  seq. 


Livingstone,  David,  finding  of,  by 
Stanley,  151. 

Livingstone's  discovery  of  Victoria 
Falls,  210. 

Lobenguela,  211. 

Lobito  Bay  Railway,  179,  201. 

"Longwood,"  residence  of  Napo- 
leon, 266. 

Lualaba  River,  187. 

Luderitz  Bay  (German  Southwest 
Africa),  188. 

Madagascar,  5,  9,  12. 
Mah6  (Seychelles),  248  et  seq. 
Majunga  (Madagascar), 9. 
Mannesmann  Brothers  in  Morocco, 

173- 
Marchand,  Major,  and  the  Fashoda 

incident,  20. 
Marrakesh  (Morocco),  30. 
Mashonaland,  209. 
Matabeleland,  190. 
Mauresque  women,  67-69. 
Mauritania,  4. 
Meharistes,  18. 
Melilla  (Morocco),  47. 
Meroe,  Island  of  (Anglo-Egyptian 

Sudan),  138. 
Mineral  resources  of  South  Africa, 

234- 
Mohammedanism,    spread    of,    in 

Africa,  95  et  seq. 
Moorish  character,  38. 
Moors,  the,  36. 
Morals  of  Europeans  in  East  Africa, 

157- 
Morocco,  27  et  seq.;  agriculture,  32; 

climate,  33;    flowers,  33;    future 

of,  41,  54;   natural  resources,  34; 

railways  projected  in,  52;  slavery 

in,  51;  travel  in,  difficulties  of,  35. 
Morocco  City.     (See  Marrakesh.) 
Morocco-Equatoria  Convention,  165. 
Mount  Ida  (Crete),  281. 
Mozambique,  178. 
Mulai-abd-el-Hafid,     ex-Sultan     of 

Morocco,  28. 
Mulai  Youssef,  Sultan  of  Morocco, 

41. 


289 


INDEX 


Napoleon's  exile  on  Saint  Helena, 
259  el  seq. 

Natal,  234. 

Native:  labor  in  South  African 
mines,  243;  troops  in  French 
Africa,  13. 

Natives:  treatment  of  Rhodesian, 
218;  treatment  of  South  African, 
229. 

New  Kamerun,  5,  173-6. 

Nikki  (Dahomey),  9. 

Nile,  the,  122;  as  agent  of  pros- 
perity, 21;  plan  to  divert  the,  20. 

Oases,  Saharan,  24. 

Oasis  of:  Kaouer,  24;  Kufra,  88,  99; 
Jof,  99  et  seq.;  Tuat,  52. 

Omdurman  (Anglo -Egyptian  Su- 
dan), 126. 

Orange  River  Free  State,  224. 

Otavi  District  (German  Southwest 
Africa),  188. 

Ouled-Nails,  56  et  seq. 

Papal  assistance  to  Italy  in  taking 

of  Tripolitania,  92. 
Parliament    of    Union    of    South 

Africa,  227. 
Port  Florence  (British  East  Africa), 

200. 
Portugal  in  Africa,  177. 
Portuguese  East  Africa,  178. 
Premier  Diamond  Mine,  239. 
Pretoria  (Transvaal),  238. 

Race  problem  in  South  Africa,  225. 

Railway:  "Afro,"  52,  17Q;  "Cape- 
to-Cairo,"  igoetseq.;  LobitoBay, 
179,  201;  Otavi,  188;  Uganda, 
200. 

Railways  in:  Abyssinia,  10;  Al- 
geria, 8;  Central  Africa,  190; 
French  Africa,  8;  German  Africa, 
179;  Morocco,  52;  Rhodesia,  219; 
the  Sahara,  8;  the  Sudan,  13 1-3; 
West  Africa,  9. 

Rand,  the,  235. 

Rejaf  (Uganda),  137. 

Reunion,  12. 


Rhodes,  Cecil  John,  190  el  seq.,  211, 
322. 

Rhodes  Memorial  near  Cape  Town, 
203. 

Rhodesia,  205  et  seq.;  agriculture, 
214;  climate,  209,  213-4;  cost 
of  living  in,  217;  country  clubs 
in,  216;  future  of,  222;  govern- 
ment, 212;  labour,  demand  for 
skilled,  217;  law  and  order  in, 
214;  natives,  218;  railways,  219; 
resources,  214. 

Riff,  the  (Morocco),  46-48. 

Rinderpest,  232. 

Rogers,  American  adventurer,  151. 

Sahara,  18,  21. 

Saint  Helena,  258  et  seq. 

Saint  Pierre  Island,  257. 

Salisbury,  Lord,  192. 

Salisbury  (Rhodesia),  213. 

Sand  storms,  132. 

Sea  turtles,  272. 

Sebu  River  (Morocco),  32. 

Senegal,  4. 

Senegambia,  25. 

Senussi,  the  sheikh,  99  et  seq. 

Senussiyeh,  Brotherhood  of,  98 
et  seq. 

Seychelles,  248  et  seq.;  climate  of, 
251;  housekeeping  in,  252-3. 

Sharef  River  (Morocco),  32. 

Sherifian  dynasty,  42. 

Slavery  in  North  Africa,  73. 

Sleeping-sickness,  213. 

Sobat  River,  20. 

Sokoto  (Nigeria),  100. 

South  Africa,  Union  of,  223  et  seq.; 
agriculture,  234;  colour  problem 
in,  226-8;  diamond-mining,  234 
et  seq.;  future  of,  246;  language 
problem  in,  224;  mineral  re- 
sources of,  234;  need  of  irrigation 
in,  233;  race  problem  in,  225; 
treatment  of  natives  in,  228-231. 

Spanish  sphere  of  influence  in 
Morocco,  46. 

Sphakiote  Mountains  (Crete),  281. 

Stanley,  Henry  M.,  151,  211. 


290 


INDEX 


Sudan,  the  Anglo-Egyptian,  126 
et  seq.;  agriculture,  128;  future 
of,  141;  government,  127;  rail- 
ways, 13 1-3. 

Sudd,  the,  137. 

Suez  Canal,  141. 

Sultan  of  Morocco,  41. 

Sultan  of  Turkey,  96. 

Sultan  of  Zanzibar,  160  et  seq. 

Sus,  the  (Morocco),  46,  49. 

Swahili:  language,  156;  race,  154. 

Swakopmund  (German  Southwest 
Africa),  188,  200. 

Table   Mountain    (Cape   of    Good 

Hope),  203. 
Tamatave  (Madagascar),  9. 
Tangier  (Morocco),  10,  43,  54. 
Teneriffe  (Canary  Islands),  271. 
Tewfik  Pasha,  no. 
Tibesti  (Sahara),  24. 
Timbuktu     (Upper    Senegal -Niger 

Territories),  8,  9,  53. 
Tippoo  Tib,  151. 
Tobruk  (Tripolitania),  87. 
Togoland,  175. 

Tortoise  shell  from  Saint  Pierre,  257. 
Transvaal,  235. 
Treatment    of    women    in    North 

Africa,  74-79. 
Tripoli  (Tripolitania),  84-89. 
Tripolitania,  80  et  seq.;  future  of,  88, 

105;  trade  of,  91. 
Tsetse-fly,  208,  213. 
Tuaregs,  99. 
Tuat  (Sahara),  52. 


Tunisia,  3. 
Tunisian  justice,  64. 
Tunisian  perfumery,  67. 
Turkish  Sultan's  influence  in  Africa, 
96. 

Uganda  Railway,  200. 

Ujda  (Morocco),  9. 

Ujiji  (German  East  Africa),  187. 

Umtali  (Mashonaland),  209. 

United  States  in  Africa,  82  et  seq. 

Upper  Senegal-Niger  Territories,  4. 

Vasco  da  Gama,  143. 
Victoria  (Seychelles),  254. 
Victoria  Falls,  194,  210,  220  et  seq. 
Victoria  Nyanza,  198,  203. 

Wadai,  5,  9,  100. 

Wady  Haifa  (Anglo-Egyptian  Su- 
dan), 137. 

Walfish  Bay  (German  Southwest 
Africa),  188. 

Women  of  North  Africa,  56  et  seq. 

"World's  View"  (Cape  of  Good 
Hope),  203. 

Zambezi  River,  221. 

Zanzibar,  143  et  seq.;  climate,  146; 
future  of,  163;  German  desire 
for,  164;  hotel  accommodation  in, 
146-7;  ivory  market  in,  153; 
natives  of,  154;  Sultan  of,  160  et 
seq.;  tropical  diseases  in,  152. 

Ziban,  the  (Algerian  Sahara),  57. 

Zulus,  229. 


291 


MAP  OF  AFRICA.  SHOWING  RAILWAYS  AND  SPHERES  OF  INFLUENCE. 


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